The Game That You Learnt
by CleosDeath
Summary: Melanie had spent her entire life watching. Now was the time to start playing. Sherlock/OC. COMPLETE
1. Introductions

**One  
**_**Introductions**_

"Something's amiss, John."

"Really, Sherlock? That is a surprise." John Watson didn't even bother to look up from his newspaper as he sat comfortably in the only chair in the flat which wasn't covered in a pile of papers or some odd object, or worse – both.

"Something is definitely amiss."

John gave up and folded the newspaper before placing it precariously on the stack of files next to him. "What?"

Sherlock was pacing the length of the room, his usual look of concentration firmly set on his face. John wondered whether he was even really asking for his opinion. He was probably just voicing his thoughts aloud, and having John there meant that at least he wasn't talking to the skull on the mantelpiece, which, no matter how loudly Sherlock spoke, was resolutely not going to talk back.

"It's too neat," was Sherlock's helpful response. John reached for his newspaper again. This conversation was going nowhere. "Look."

John only just managed to catch the mobile that had been thrown towards him. He turned it around to see what was troubling Sherlock this time. The screen was frozen on an online news article. He read the first few lines.

"The Sabrina Western story? There's nothing neat about that." He looked up at a still pacing Sherlock.

"Don't you see, John?"

John scanned the article again, having already read a lengthy feature on the matter in his own paper. Nothing new stood out at him. No new facts made it appear to be anything other than an open and shut case. A messy case, yes, but still an open and shut one.

He turned back to Sherlock, ready to find out what Sherlock had seen that he had missed, but faltered when he saw that Sherlock had already grabbed his coat and scarf and was heading towards the door.

"What? Sherlock?" he called but his only response was the sound of the front door opening and shutting. He sat there for a second, debating what to do. Finally he reached a conclusion. "Oh, sod it."

He stood, swept up his jacket, and hurried to catch up with his flatmate.

* * *

I peered down at the list in front of me.

The new interns were bound to have made some sort of mistake. They always did.

I nibbled on the tip on my pen lid as I double-checked the reference numbers on the page, my reading glasses perched securely on the end of my nose.

And there it was.

The Jain arch was most definitely not catalogued as IS.2-1977. I had been examining that item this morning. I rifled through the folder on the desk, searching for the right number. I skilfully found it and jotted it down next to the correct title. IM54&55-1916. That sounded more like it.

I was just continuing with my inspection when the chunky old landline phone on my desk began ringing shrilly. I sighed, put down my pen, and answered it.

"Yes?"

"Dr. Hunt, there's someone on the line wanting to talk to you," spoke the voice I recognised vaguely as one of the admin personnel, "He says he's a detective."

The personnel sounded rather curious about this, as if they thought this detective wanted to arrest me over the phone or something. I admitted to myself that, while it was strange to have a detective call you up at your work place when your mobile was on, it was not something that needed a song and dance.

"Put them through." I heard a high electronic tone while the personnel connected the lines. When it stopped I spoke up, "This is Dr. Melanie Hunt."

"_Err…" _It was a man's voice that came forth, sounding rather taken aback_. "Good afternoon. My name's DI Lestrade. I'm from New Scotland Yard."_

"Oh, hi, what can I do for you?" I asked as I continued to scan the list in my hands.

"_A colleague recommended I talk to you about an object involved in a case I'm currently working on. It's probably nothing, but I was wondering if it would be possible for you to come down and take a look at it?"_

"Sure." I answered, not really thinking anything of it. "What time do you want me there?"

"_As soon as possible, if you don't mind."_

"Not at all. I can be there in…" I checked my watch, "… an hour."

"_Great. I'll let the front desk know we're expecting you."_

"Yep. See you then."

* * *

It had been a while since I had last stepped foot inside New Scotland Yard. To be honest, I had only ever been inside twice before, but it was still a while ago. Those times were when some ancient Sanskrit manuscripts had turned up on the black market and the detective in charge had rightly chosen to get an expert in. Apparently the fact that I was the first person who agreed to help then now made me the resident consultant. This new case was probably something similar. Hopefully resulting in another new piece for the museum.

I was led through the maze of desks in the light office by a pretty female officer who hadn't bothered to introduce herself towards a separated office at the back of the room. I noticed the frosted words on the glass door announcing this to be Lestrade's workspace before the officer swiftly knocked and opened the door. She held it open and I stepped inside.

There were three men in the room. One was standing by the window staring out. He appeared to be a slightly older man with hair that was beginning to grey. The second man was sitting in one of the chairs facing the desk, dressed casually in jeans and a t-shirt, with short hair and a friendly face. The last was sitting behind the desk, his fingers crossed in front of him and a focused expression in his eyes. I assumed this was Lestrade. But if that was the case, why wasn't he wearing a suit like the man at the window?

Two of the men turned to face me when I entered. The one by the window approached.

"Dr. Hunt, I take it? We spoke on the phone."

I blinked but took the hand he outstretched to me. Well, that explained why the man behind the desk wasn't wearing a suit. "Nice to meet you, but you can call me Melanie."

He turned back to the other men in the room. The one behind the desk still hadn't raised his gaze, but he decided to speak up all the same. "I have already told you that this is unnecessary."

Well, that was nice of him.

Lestrade continued as if he hadn't said anything. "This is Dr. Melanie Hunt, Head of Early South Asian Artefacts at the Victoria & Albert Museum."

The friendly-faced man stood and held out a hand, which I took and shook.

"Dr. John Watson." He introduced himself. I returned his smile before turning to the last man in the room, expecting a similar greeting.

He said nothing.

John sighed. "He's Sherlock Holmes."

"Hi?" I offered with a small wave. Sherlock just stared into space. I decided it was time to move on. "So, what's this object you have then?"

I turned back to Lestrade. He nodded and walked over to his desk, from whose bottom drawer he retrieved a large black box. I stepped up to it as he unlocked the box and lifted the lid. I peered down at what was inside.

I looked up at Lestrade and nodded towards the artefact inside, "Do you mind if I?"

"Go ahead."

After stretching on a pair of white rubber gloves and putting on my reading glasses I carefully lifted the heavy object out of its container. I held it up and began examining it from different angles.

Sherlock had apparently had enough of the silent game and chose to kindly inform us of his thoughts. Or show off. "It is an extremely early sandstone depiction of Ganesh probably from the fifth century. It is an extremely valuable commodity and it is therefore curious as to why it was found in the possession of our body. Ah!"

He suddenly stood, a look of realisation on his face as he began making his way towards the door. I narrowed my eyes and peered at the object.

"No, actually."

"Yes." Sherlock contradicted me almost automatically. He pulled open the door. "John, come. The game is on."

I cocked my head to the side, trying to make out some of the finer details. "No. It's a fake."

Sherlock stopped mid-way through the door. John didn't bother finishing getting up. Lestrade just looked surprised.

Almost instantly Sherlock was beside my side. "A fake?" he asked hurriedly.

"Yes," I told him. "A very good one, mind. They've only sculpted two arms, see, which is only apparent in very early images. It's now approaching on sacrilegious to only give Ganesh two arms. And I expect the stone is period too, the aging is done exceptionally. I probably wouldn't have noticed it was a fake if the forger hadn't made a crucial error."

"That being?" John asked.

"His tusk's broken."

"Of course." Sherlock muttered beside me.

"So? Maybe it could have chipped off or something?" Lestrade pointed out.

"No, it's been sculpted that way – he's holding the broken tusk in his left hand. Modern depictions of Ganesh always incorporate a broken tusk. It signifies how the god made a sacrifice in order to write the Mahabharata, and also the importance of the created world as opposed to the non-manifest world represented by the unbroken tusk. But this isn't seen in early images. The stories of the broken tusk were added later. He should be holding a bowl of sweets."

Lestrade was now staring at the broken tusk I was pointing out to him. "But if it's a fake-"

"Yes!" Sherlock suddenly exclaimed. Everyone looked at him. He was smiling. "Oh, it's so simple."

"Is it?" John asked.

But it was too late; Sherlock was already striding through the door into the main office space.

John stood quickly and smiled at me. "It was nice meeting you, Melanie."

"Same." I said, still extremely confused by the whole situation. John jogged out after Sherlock, who by now was on the other side of the office and disappearing down the stairway. I turned slowly back to Lestrade. He didn't seem too bothered by the Sherlock's unusual (to say the least) behaviour.

I started putting the fake statue back into its box.

"Right, well, I guess if yo-" I paused. Something had just hit me. A huge, monumental thing. Like a seven tonne truck. "Wait. Did he say _body_?"

* * *

_Review? Should I continue with this or not?_


	2. Interpretations

**Two**  
_**Interpretations **_

It was late by the time I got home from work that evening – probably around nine thirty, maybe later. It wasn't as if I had that much work, only slightly more than the usual amount, really. But I just couldn't concentrate. I found that every now and then my mind would start wandering.

Lestrade had refused to tell me what the case was really about and my curiosity was spiking. I was seriously tempted to browse recent news articles to try to find out if there had been any unusual missing persons or newly found murders. I knew there had been a _body_, and that surely would have made the headlines. But every time my laptop had scrolled to the BBC news page I had stopped myself.

I didn't want to know.

I closed the front door behind me, dropped my keys on the nearby table and shrugged off my grey jacket. I rounded the corner of my tiny hallway and entered the kitchen come living area of my apartment. I automatically walked across the room and switched on the kettle.

"You're late."

I almost jumped out of my skin at the voice.

"Holy-" I shouted while spinning around to see who had spoken from inside my should-be-empty flat. My eyes widened. "What are _you_ doing here?"

For there, sitting smack bang in the centre of my sofa, staring right at me without so much as a flinch, was the bizarre man I had met earlier today – Sherlock Holmes.

"I required your assistance."

I felt like my brain was starting to unravel. "How did you know where I live? Scratch that. How the hell did you get in?"

A small smirk crossed his features. I had no idea why he was smirking. This was most definitely classified as breaking and entering.

"I looked up all M. Hunts in the phone book and chose the one which was in the area that you obviously lived in."

"Obviously?" I was still yelling. But I felt like I had the right to be angry.

"Yes." He said plainly. I brought my hand to my forehead and started massaging my temples. This man was impossible.

"How exactly was it obvious?" I asked, starting to calm down.

He stood, as if this was the question he had been waiting for.

"Everything about you speaks of a combination of function and style. Your hair is pulled back, yet your heels are dangerously high. Your nails are short, yet highly decorative." I subconsciously shuffled my feet in their deep red heels and inspected my red patterned nails. "You would therefore live in an area close enough to the museum for easy commuting, but it would also have a… fashionable atmosphere. When you retrieved your glasses from your bag I noticed that the model of your phone is at least five years old, yet it is fairly new, meaning that not only are you not interested in modern technology, but that you also do not wish to spend more than you need. This would correspond with my estimate of your salary and therefore you would not be able to afford living in several areas of London. I expect whatever money you have spare is spent on clothing. The lack of a wedding ring means that you would most likely live in a flat and not a house and the slight sign of mud on your shoes means that it would have to be somewhere where it had rained in the last twenty four hours. All in all, it was ridiculously easy narrowing the options down to this apartment."

I just stared at him.

"That was… err… impressive." I finally managed out. "What is it you do again?"

"I'm a consulting detective." He answered while inspecting the contents of my floor-to-ceiling bookshelf.

"Never heard of one of them before."

"You wouldn't have."

"And…" I said, still trying to get my head around his previous speech, "…how exactly did you get in?"

"Picked the lock."

Ok. Well. This was… weird. Actually that didn't really seem to cover it, but somehow I couldn't think of a word that did. I doubted whether one even existed. It was too odd. This man was too odd. I needed to sit down.

I practically collapsed into the rickety kitchen chair and sighed. Sherlock turned from the bookshelf and walked over to me. He held out a notebook.

"Your assistance." He said, indicating I should take the notebook. I did and opened it. I narrowed my eyes, too exhausted to get my reading glasses out.

"It's Pali." I told him.

"I realised that." He said. "Can you translate it?"

I scratched my forehead. "Yes." I flipped through the notebook, scanning the good ten pages of script. "But it would take a while."

"How long?"

"It depends. A couple of hours maybe." I looked at the first line and started working through it in my head. Something clicked. "Hang on."

Sherlock stood and watched as I dug in my bag and pulled out my laptop, glasses and a notepad and pen. While the computer was starting up I trotted over to the bookshelf. I returned holding a ratty old paperback that I had had since before my university days.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked.

"Hang on." I repeated, hoping to shut him up. In my notepad I jotted down what I thought was an accurate translation of the first sentence. I typed it into google. I instantly found what I was looking for. I followed the number on the screen and found the right page in the book. I scanned the text, every now and then checking it with the Pali Sherlock had handed me.

"It's a Sutta – like a narrative from Buddha. Mula Sutta, to be precise, from the Book of Threes in the Anguttara Nikaya." I continued reading the book containing the English translation. "It's a good text."

"It's religious? That's all?" Sherlock asked. I looked up at him. He seemed somewhat disappointed.

"Yep. No secret codes or anything, I'm afraid."

He didn't look completely convinced of that. "What's it about?"

"Greed." I held up the book for him. "You can borrow that if you want to have a full read of it."

He took it. "Can you translate what's written in the notebook as well?"

I shrugged, but raised my eyebrows. "I guess. Why though? You've got a translation there."

"Bring it to me tomorrow." He just said while making his way towards the door.

"What? Oh, ok," I made out surprised at his brusqueness. I heard the door shut as he left. Then I realised something. "Wait! I don't know where you live!"

* * *

I heard the door open and shut, muffled voices and footsteps making their way up the stairs. I sat and waited.

"While you may be able to go without sleep for three days, others tend to have more di-"

"Hi." I greeted the people who had walked into the room.

I watched with amusement as John stood there, blinking, and every now and then opening his mouth as if to say something. It gave me less amusement to see that Sherlock didn't appear at all surprised by my presence in their chaotic flat. He simply walked over, sat in a chair in front of a computer and started typing.

"Melanie? What are you doing here?" John finally sputtered. "How did you find us? How did you get in? _Why_ did you get in?"

"Sherlock asked me for some help." I said while shrugging. "And as for the other questions – well, you know… a little deduction here, a little deduction there."

John paused.

"Oh good lord, there's two of them." He muttered still in shock. He plodded into the kitchen and started looking through the fridge.

Sherlock held out his hand to me, continuing to stare at the screen in front of him, but I swore I saw a smile on his face. "My wallet."

I laughed quietly and reached into my bag from which I extracted Sherlock's wallet that he had left at my flat last night. It was certainly a lucky coincidence that he had just happened to accidently drop it. Otherwise I doubt I would have ever found him.

"How's Mrs Hudson?" he asked quietly.

I pouted. It was no fun trying to surprise him if he already knew everything, including how I got into the flat. "She's fine."

"Hang on," John said sounding confused as he backtracked into the living room, a carton of orange juice in his hand. "Did you say Sherlock asked for help? Voluntarily?"

"Yeah, he wanted me to translate something." I answered.

John looked accusingly at Sherlock. "That Buddhist passage? I thought you worked that out yourself?"

"I never said that. I said I knew what it said." Sherlock told him while reading something on the screen.

"Oh, so you don't understand every language on the planet." John quipped as he went back into the kitchen to fetch a glass.

"Not Pali." Sherlock said. "It's not important. Nobody uses it nowadays."

I scoffed. Thanks for that. "Well, obviously some people do." Sherlock glanced at me, eyebrows raised. I pulled the notebook he had given me last night as well as my own out of my bag. "You were right to get me to translate the entire thing."

"It's not a straight-forward passage?" John asked as he came back into the room sipping on his glass of juice. I shook my head.

Sherlock looked at me, got up, and came to my side. "What's been changed?"

"Well," I began, opening the notebook with my translation. Sherlock peered down at it. "It's quite subtle, only a few words have been altered. Here," I pointed and the words which I had underlined in red, "undeluded is changed to deluded. And here unbound is changed to bound. And here, here, and here, 'not's have been missed out, which makes it read very oddly. And this whole sentence just doesn't make any sense. Words have been added and prefixes missed out. It's biz-"

But Sherlock apparently didn't think it that bizarre as he had already clapped his hands together, a look of glee on his face.

"Oho ho ho! The puzzle reveals itself! Time to go, John!" he shouted merrily, practically bouncing down the steps leading outside.

John didn't waste any time in following, not sparing me a look as he left.

I sat in silence for a moment, uncertain of what had just happened.

"I'll just wait here then, shall I?" I yelled at the already shut door.

Didn't that man ever say goodbye?

* * *

_Reviews are nice, yes?_


	3. Insight

**Three**  
_**Insight**_

I couldn't really believe I was still there. It felt so strange. And it certainly wasn't my usual day off activity.

But then again, when was the last time I had had an opportunity like this? And it wasn't _that_ bad. He had had time to snoop around in my apartment, after all, and I was pretty certain that when Sherlock snooped it revealed a whole lot more than I could find out if I asked him questions for an entire year.

So really, it was alright.

Besides, I wanted my book back.

After exploring – rather vaguely, it was too messy to see much – the contents of the living room and the kitchen, I opened the door to the bathroom and stepped inside. I was pleasantly surprised. It was far cleaner than I had expected it to be, especially since there were two guys living here. But then again, the living room wasn't necessarily dirty, just untidy. Sure, the avocado fixtures and peach walls didn't exactly scream of sparkling hygiene, but at least it wasn't covered in mould and god knows what else. They really shouldn't leave the bath curtain closed though, it'll get mild-

I had to struggle to keep the lump of vomit that had risen in my throat down. I quickly turned away and covered my mouth.

"That," I let out, trying not to breathe through my nose, "is the most disgusting thing I've ever seen."

Why? Why? Why?

Surely sane people don't keep that sort of thing in their bathtub? Actually, surely anyone who isn't a serial killer doesn't? This was rather worrying, to say the least. Oh dear. What had Sherlock called himself? _A consulting detective_. Maybe that was why he kept these kinds of things? Hopefully. Otherwise I was in some mighty deep shit.

Or maybe I had imagined it?

I clutched onto my nose firmly, trying to block out the smell, before taking several deep breaths to prepare myself. I worked up enough courage, then swiftly yanked back the shower curtain and looked down.

I couldn't help it this time. I stumbled over to the toilet where I collapsed retching into the bowl.

"Curiosity killed the cat, you know."

I tried to stop sputtering long enough to turn and glare at the man standing in the doorway. "What the hell are you doing with a fucking human arm in you bathtub?"

Sherlock just looked at me as if it was a perfectly ordinary thing to keep dismembered body parts around the place. I was starting to feel increasingly worried that I had stumbled across some psychopath's lair.

"It didn't fit in the sink." He said.

"You- I-" I didn't really know how to respond to that, it was such a horrible image. Finally I found the question I was looking for. "Why do you have it in the first place?"

"I was measuring the rate of sub-aquatic decomposition."

I stood up shakily, moved over to the sink (blocking out any nasty thoughts that came with it) and splashed some water on my face. I was way beyond the point of caring about my makeup.

"And you need to do that, do you?" I asked, staring determinedly at the tap.

"Of course." He sounded genuinely surprised that I even needed to ask that.

"Who are you talking to?" I looked up and saw John walk into the doorway behind Sherlock. He noticed me and his face became worried. "Oh, Christ, Melanie. You didn't… err… You looked in the bathtub, didn't you?"

"Yep."

"Shit." He shoved past Sherlock and put a hand on my shoulder. "Come on. I'll make you a cup of tea to stop the shivering."

I merely nodded and followed him out of the room. He led me over to the armchair which I promptly slumped into. John turned back to Sherlock.

"You could have at least tried to be nice."

"I _was_ being nice."

* * *

"So," I said, determined to distract myself with some conversation that wasn't about severed arms. The hot mug of tea in my hands was indeed helping me to relax slightly, but it did little to block out my memory of that… thing. "You're working on a case involving Pali and fake murtis?"

Sherlock was sitting on the chair opposite me, staring at the ceiling and completely ignoring my presence. He didn't answer me. John was perching on some large crate on the other side of the room – there didn't seem to be any other free chair in the flat; they were all covered in junk.

"We were." He said with a small smile.

"You solved it?"

"Yes, well, it was Sherlock technically."

I took another gulp of the tea. My mind was slowly beginning to drift somewhere closer to normality and now my curiosity was being teased again. "What was it about?"

Sherlock interrupted before John had even begun to answer me. "Judging from your reaction to amputated limbs, I don't think it would be a wise decision to tell you."

I rolled my eyes, but something in me squirmed. Was the case even more gruesome than the bath scene? "You wouldn't have to tell me all the gory details…" Please don't. "…just what it was about. Someone died, didn't they?"

"Obviously."

"Who?" I asked.

Sherlock didn't say anything. John looked at him and seemed to consider his options for a moment. When Sherlock made no movement whatsoever, he apparently decided it meant he had no objection to me knowing that.

"Sabrina Western."

"That story in the news?" That had taken me off guard somewhat. I don't know why, but perhaps having a name made it something less of a game and more like reality. It wasn't just the concept of a body anymore. It was a person. "But I thought they had already solved that? The husband did it."

Sherlock let out what might had been a scoff, a smile dancing at the edge of his lips. I raised an eyebrow at him. There was no need to laugh at me. I wasn't that dumb.

Sherlock met my gaze and smirked. "The wrist watch said otherwise."

Oh, that was just so helpful.

"You like doing this, don't you?" I said. "Making others feel unintelligent? It's why you do the whole let-me-explain-my-reasoning-like-it-was-nothing thing." John let out a small chuckle. The smile vanished from Sherlock's face. I carried on, staring into his eyes. "You're always observing, always deducing, but you actually don't get it. Oh, you understand the emotions involved, know what causes them and can predict how people will respond, but underneath that, behind the simple chain of cause and effect, you have no clue. I bet on some level you resent that. You want to feel what others do. But you've convinced yourself that whatever these emotions are, they just get in the way and stop you from being all you can be. And you certainly don't want to be just some nobody and a social outcast, so you compensate. You use your intelligence to separate yourself from everyone, just as it separated you when you were a child, and over the years that's all you've become – a big brain inside a shell. But it's all to distract yourself and others from what really frightens you; you don't understand."

I stopped and silence engulfed the room.

Sherlock continued staring at me.

The tension was becoming sharper and sharper.

Then suddenly, "No. You're completely wrong." Sherlock said lightly, sighing and turning to look at the ceiling again.

"Well, actually-" John was cut off by his phone ringing loudly. He reached into his pocket and answered it. "Hi… Oh, yeah… Sure… Alright… See you there." He hung up and turned to us. "I'm goi-"

"Send my regards to Sarah." Sherlock interjected.

"Will do." He muttered, standing up and shrugging on his jacket. "Maybe I'll see you around, Melanie."

"Yeah, maybe." I answered before he gave a small wave and walked out down the stairs.

A good two minutes passed in silence – me trying to think of anything to say and Sherlock just doing nothing. Finally I jumped as he let out a small frustrated grunt.

"What?" I asked.

"Bored."

"Thanks." I answered sarcastically. He just peered at me with narrowed eyes. "Fine. Why don't we have a conversation?" He laughed and shut his eyes. I gritted my teeth together. Then an idea occurred to me. "Ok, then, let's play a game."

His eyes opened again, "Games do not entertain me."

"This one will." He shrugged. I took that as a please-do-continue. "I'll ask you questions and you have to answer them." His head instantly flopped backwards and he let out an even louder grunt. He obviously wasn't impressed. I added, "The questions, of course, will be about me and you will have to infer the answers without my help."

He looked up, a curious look in his eyes. "I suppose I shall try it out."

"Alright," I began, "what's my age?"

He sighed. "Too easy."

My face dropped. "Then the answer would be…"

"Twenty nine."

"Ha!" I pointed my finger at him in victory. "I'm only twenty eight!"

He calmly looked me up and down, still sounding bored. "Oh yes. Your birthday is not until next week."

Damn it. "Ok, when did I last dye my hair?"

"You do not dye your hair. That dark brown is natural and has been for at least ten years. However, the tattoo of the dove on your right wrist tells me that you were somewhat of a rebellious teenager with, I expect, a fascination for dying your hair unusual colours." He answered.

I had to admit it, I was rather impressed. Even if it was rather scary having some man I didn't really know talking about my life as if he had stalked me for the majority of it.

"Do I have any siblings?"

"A younger sister and an older brother. I saw the photograph in your apartment."

Then that one didn't count.

"What time do I get to work every day?"

"Around seven past nine. Your watch is set six minutes early suggesting you struggle with punctuality, but it's been shown that setting your watch earlier does not improve this."

"Where was my last holiday to?"

"You have not been anywhere with a hotter climate in a few years, as evident by your pale skin. You probably went somewhere continental for a weekend last winter though, my guess is Paris."

"How many languages can I speak?"

"Five with reasonable fluency, including English. The rest are Indo-Aryan."

"Do I play any instruments?"

"No."

"Pets?"

"Your cat died sometime last year."

"Car?"

"You don't drive."

"Addictions?"

"Cigarettes."

"Phobias?"

"Wasps."

"Sports?"

"Squash."

"Love life?"

"Single."

I stopped, my breathing uneven.

I stared at him.

He wasn't even bothering to look at me anymore. He just sat there with his eyes closed.

I shook my head slightly, in awe at his observational skills.

My head was spinning.

My voice came out breathier than I had imagined.

"You must be great in bed."

* * *

_Thanks to anyone who reviewed last time! _

_Could you do it again? Maybe? For little ol' me? And for Sherlock, of course._


	4. Inconsideration

**Four**_**  
Inconsideration**_

Sherlock almost leapt off of the chair and to his feet.

I blinked. Did I just say that out loud? Oh, shit.

I watched in silence as Sherlock walked to the other side of the room, scattered some papers, then returned, now holding something familiar in his hand.

"Your book." He offered, holding the book out to me. I took it in silence, uncertain of what to say or do to make this situation go away. Even by my standards, telling this man he must be good in the sack was bad. But then again, he must be – with that level of perception.

Sherlock sat back on the chair, completely ignoring me as he reached to the side and brought forth a violin. He started playing aggressively.

Oh good lord, he was good with his hands too.

I stood up violently.

"I have to go."

Sherlock didn't even flinch. He just continued to play the violin, not giving me the slightest bit of attention or even recognition, as I picked up my bag and left the apartment in a hurry.

* * *

For the second time in three days, I couldn't concentrate at work.

This time however I was not distracted by my burning curiosity in some gruesome murder case. This time I was distracted by something much odder.

Sherlock was just so different to anyone I had met before. Sure, I wasn't overcome with a frantic desire to date or even get to know him. It was just… strange. The inquisitive part of my brain needed to explain it. To understand him.

I had even searched his name online. There were more than a few sites mentioning him, including, to my horror, one that looked suspiciously like a government research centre. But there were really only two sites that gave me any real information on the man.

One was Sherlock's own website, '_The Science of Deduction'_. It was kind of sketchy, to say the least. Basically him just asking anyone if they had any interesting cases to be solved and complaining about his need for a smoke. Not really the epitome of entertainment.

The other was a blog. John's blog. Now, I don't usually like looking at the blogs of people I know, it feels like a real invasion of privacy, despite the fact that they've shoved it up online for anyone to read. But in this case my curiosity won out. It was a lot more informative than Sherlock's site. John seemed to have written up one of their cases (something about suicides and pink? I didn't want to know the details) and the little tidbits of information he gave of Sherlock were surprisingly revealing. Who the hell, for example, doesn't know the earth goes round the sun? I've met six year olds in the middle of rural India who knew that!

All in all, reading up about Sherlock had given me more to think about than if I had just let it be.

I read the label in my hands for the third time, having not taken in a word it said. I sighed and finally decided where it should be placed in the display unit. The museum was fairly empty, being midday on a Thursday in the middle of term, but I could hear the chattering of a group of kids on a school trip on the other side of the reasonably small Nehru Gallery. They were obviously talking about some famous actor and not concentrating on their school work.

I slid the glass door on the cabinet shut and locked it before placing the keys back around my neck. I turned, thinking that maybe I should take my lunch break, only to immediately stop and jump.

"How long have you been standing there?"I asked in shock.

"Over two minutes." Sherlock informed me. "Your mind is unusually unfocused today."

I tried to leave my face blank and not glare at him. "Thanks. Why are you here?"

He looked at me for a second before replying. "An experiment."

God damn his bloody stupid answers. Need I ask every single question in the human vocabulary to get a proper response? "What experiment?"

"I need equipment." He just told me. He then simply turned and began walking quickly in the other direction. I sighed. This could start to get annoying.

"Hey! Sherlock!" I jogged along to catch up with him, my heels clapping against the ground and startling the school kids. "Sherlock, will you please stop and explain? What equipment? What experiment? Answer me you giant freaking brain-box!"

I followed him along the corridor and up several flights of stairs, too busy trying to get him to talk to me to actually notice where we were heading. He suddenly halted and I knocked into his back with a small 'umphf'. I regained my balanced and looked at him confused. Then I noticed where we were.

"Ok, why are we standing outside one of the storerooms?"

"Because I need equipment." And before I knew what was happening I felt movement around my neck and my set of keys was in his hand.

"What? Sherlock!" I yelled in protest. He instantly found the right key and inserted it into the lock. "Sherlock, don't you dare open that door." He turned the key. "Sherlock, I'm warning you…"

He opened the door.

He stepped inside.

I only just had time to follow him before he slammed the door shut behind us.

"Alright, alright, look," I gave up trying to reason with the man about museum regulations, "if you just tell me what equipment it is that you need, then maybe, _maybe_, I might let you borrow it."

Sherlock walked around a large chest of drawers in the centre of the room and starting inspecting items on a shelf near the back. "I'm looking for something made from human bone, at least two thousand years old."

"I'm sorry, what?" I let out. "You are joking, right?"

"Why would I be joking?"

"What do you want to do with an ancient human bone?" I asked disbelievingly. Sherlock continued to browse through the shelves of objects that weren't yet on display or needed to be studied. He casually picked up a particularly fragile seventh century pot. I ran over and quickly took it from him, replacing it back carefully where it had come from. "And no man-handling the delicate antiquities."

"I need to dissolve it in acid."

"What, Sherlock! No! You cannot dissolve a priceless ancient artefact in acid just because you're bored!"

Sherlock opened a drawer.

"Of course." He muttered. I could tell he wasn't really listening. "Ah!"

He pulled out an Oriental dagger. I didn't know when it was made, but I could tell what the handle was made from.

"Sherlock, put it down!" I ordered. He pretended not to notice me and started examining the handle. I had had enough.

He honestly looked fairly shocked. I swear he did.

For the first time, I had managed to catch Sherlock Holmes off-guard.

He slowly raised a hand and touched his cheek. It looked slightly pink. I guessed I had slapped him a little harder than I had meant to. But bloody hell he deserved it. He narrowed his eyes at me sceptically. I raised my eyebrows and bit my lip, one side of me surprised at what I had just done, the other hoping that Sherlock wasn't the type to hit a woman.

"I… er…" I stumbled, "just… just put the knife down and leave. Otherwise, I'm going to call security."

He seemed to be sizing me up for a minute. Then, very slowly, he placed the dagger back into the drawer and shut it. He stepped back from me, and then walked straight out of the room, without saying goodbye.

I sighed and rubbed my forehead.

* * *

I had returned to work only to be confronted by one of my bosses about why I had been running through the corridors shouting at some man ('Now, I understand if you're having problems with your boyfriend, but I'd prefer if you didn't bring them to…') and by the time they had finished ten minutes later I was in serious need of my lunch break. And a cigarette.

I stepped out of the double doors of the Exhibition Road entrance, checking my phone for any missed messages.

"I'm hungry."

"Shit!" I yelped and spun around. Sherlock was peering across the street, having startled the living crap out of me. Again. "Why do you always do that?"

"Are there any decent cafés around here?"

"Oh my God…" I ran a hand through the bits of hair framing my face. I could not believe this man. "I guess."

He stood for a second without moving. Then all of a sudden he was off again up the street. "Show me."

"Huh? I-" I blinked. This was getting too much for me. I could go with him. But then again, it was kind of strange since I had slapped him across the face not quarter of an hour ago. And what was with him asking me? I shook my head, giving up on trying to understand. I might as well just go with the flow. "You're going the wrong way!"

* * *

We sat outside the small Italian café down one of the many narrow streets near the Museum. It wasn't one of the larger gaudy ones that you usually got around there, most tourists didn't even notice it was there, but it was popular with the business men who worked in the offices nearby. I liked it. It was one of my usual lunch places.

I got out my fag pack and opened it, pulling one of the cigarettes out of the cardboard. I didn't fail in noticing Sherlock's expression.

"Want one?"

He gazed at the pack. "Quitting."

"Oh." I said before sliding the cigarette back inside. I knew how hard quitting could be, having tried and failed at least seven times to do so, and I also knew that someone blowing smoke in your face didn't exactly help with the cravings. I shoved the pack back into my bag. I looked at Sherlock, my mind racing with all the puzzles. "Would you have really destroyed that dagger if I hadn't stopped you?"

He took a sip of the coffee in front of him. "Why wouldn't I have?"

"Because it's- it's- it's _history_."

"No it isn't." He said calmly. "It's an object."

I could barely believe my ears. "But it's over two thousand years old! Think about all the different people who've owned it! About how many different uses it's had! About how much skill went into making it and how it must have been passed down from generation to generation, each owner caring for it, in order for it to still be in that good a condition!"

He narrowed his eyes at me.

"That's far too sentimental a reason for you to not want it destroyed." He told me matter-of-factly. "You are not a sentimental person."

"I could be." I defended.

"But you're not."

I sighed. "Fine, but still. It's not just the past that's reflected in an artefact like that. It could tell us about the people, explaining why things are like they are today, influencing the future. It could have been an important discovery!"

Sherlock stirred the teaspoon around the cup. "You do what you do in order to prove yourself."

"I-" I paused, taking in what he had said. "What?"

"Ahh, I see." A look of realisation crossed his face. I didn't like that look. Not when we were talking about me. I suddenly had the instinct to run away. Sherlock peered into my eyes, a small smile on his lips. "That little speech you gave me yesterday wasn't about me, was it?"

* * *

_FYI my beta-reader has put up an awesome illustration of Melanie on her deviantart. It's under her username of RAWRified and I think there's a link on my profile. So go check it out._

_Review if you like cookies!_


	5. Indulgence

**Five**  
_**Indulgence**_

"I'm not emotionless."

"Of course not." Sherlock said offhandedly, turning away from me as he took a drink of his coffee. I reminded myself that he didn't need to look at me anymore; he could probably tell everything about me by just analysing the length of the pause I left before speaking.

"And I'm not friendless."

"No, you have many friends – Becky, for example – but you don't let them get too close, do you? They think that you do, but you don't." He was still staring across the street. In some ways, I was glad I didn't have to look him in the eyes as he told me these things.

"I- Wait. How did you know about Becky?"

"There was a message on your answer machine."

For a second, I thought it was a joke, but then I realised who I was speaking to and my eyes widened in disbelief. "You listened to my messages?"

"Yes. Now, you probably like people and the company they bring, but you don't feel any real connection to them. That's why the photograph of your family was buried behind a pile of books. You value your work over your emotional ties." He told me nonchalantly, turning back to the pastry in front of him, tearing a chunk away and eating it.

"That's not… I mean, yes… but I… it… I'm not…"

"The presence of men's clothing in your wardrobe suggests that you only recently broke up with your last boyfriend and he has not yet collected his belongings as he does not wish to see you. I suppose that he became rather too infatuated for your liking so you dumped him. In all likelihood he performed some grand display of affection which you despised, but I would need another look at his clothes to determine what it was."

"He, err… he proposed, but, err…" I stopped and took in what he had said. "Hang on! You _went through my wardrobe_?"

"Ah, of course. You only told him you didn't like romance. You never told him you couldn't form anything more profound than what it already was." He completely bypassed my question. But I was not going to let it drop so easily.

"Sherlock! _You went through my wardrobe_?"

He looked up at me, no sign of guilt on his face. "Yes."

I sighed. "You're a sociopath, you do know that?"

He smiled at me. "Yes, but a high-functioning one."

I took a gulp of the tea on the table between us, shaking my head in bemusement. "Well at least I have that to be thankful for. If you were a low-achieving sociopath my arm would probably be in your bathtub by now."

"Oh please, I wouldn't keep the limbs of anyone I'd killed in my apartment. That would make it a piece of cake for Scotland Yard."

My face dropped. "Yeah, cause that was my point."

Sherlock suddenly crossed his arms on the table and leaned forwards. "What are you doing on Saturday?"

I froze. God, was he? He wasn't. He couldn't be. Somehow, Sherlock Holmes didn't really seem like the type of guy to ask girls on dates. But if that was true, then what was he up to?

"Nothing. Why?"

"Becky asked you if you were up for a night out. Your days off are Sunday and Wednesday, so the night when you're most likely to go out is Saturday. But you haven't washed your hair this morning, meaning you're going to wash it tomorrow and not on Saturday as you would expect if you were going out on that night, which means you've turned Becky down. Why would you do that?"

I eyed him carefully. "I could be washing my hair tomorrow and Saturday."

"No, you're not."

I raised my eyebrows and threw one of my hands into the air. "How could you possibly know that? Go on, blow my mind."

Sherlock smirked at me.

* * *

I had given up on work completely by three that afternoon.

I had no idea why, but after my lunch with Sherlock my mind just would not function properly. Before he had turned up spewing nonsense about human bones and acid, I had simply been preoccupied with the idea of who he actually was, but now… Now… Now it was different. It was more than surface inquisitiveness. It was a full-blown attack of my entire curiosity.

He was just so damn strange.

And I could not deny my curiosity anymore.

I had explained to my boss that I wasn't feeling well ('Women's problems? Oh, yes, of course, go, yes. Just don't tell me anything about it.) and so had managed to secure the rest of my afternoon off. It was what I was planning on doing with it that made an extremely small part of my brain groan.

The door before me creaked open and a prim-looking Mrs. Hudson popped her head out.

"Yes?" She saw it was me and opened the door fully. "Ah! Dr. Hunt! Well, come in, come in."

She stepped aside and I entered the building.

"Thanks Mrs. Hudson, but you _can_ call me Melanie." I told her, following her down the hallway.

She started climbing the stairs, with me on her heels. "Well, I must say, it is nice that Sherlock's found himself a lady friend. I never thought the day would come. And such a pretty young thing too."

I laughed. "Thanks, but I'm not his girlfriend."

"Oh, sorry, I just assumed that- Well, never mind." She stopped in front of the door to flat 221b. She knocked and opened it, her frame blocking my view of anyone that was inside. "Sherlock, dear, Melanie's here to see you." She turned back to me. "I'm afraid he's having one of his days."

I smiled at her gratefully. "Thanks for the warning."

She nodded before turning and retreating back down the stairs. I entered the apartment and shut the door behind me. I gazed around the room, finally settling on Sherlock. He was lounging sideways across one of the armchairs, his face one of steely concentration and balancing a narrow walking stick on the tip of his right index finger.

"Hi." I let out somewhat quieter than I had hoped.

Sherlock didn't look up, but he seemed to already know why I was there. "No."

I frowned. "Why not?"

"I'm busy."

I reassessed the room before turning my attention back to him and the walking stick. "Clearly."

I walked across the room and sat opposite him. "Look, it's not as if I'm confessing my love for you or anything. I'm just… _curious_."

Sherlock still didn't look at me. "I told you I'm busy."

"You're bored."

"No, I'm not."

I leant forwards. "Sherlock." This time he looked at me, the walking stick still perched on his finger. I looked straight into his eyes, speaking slowly and clearly, "Everyone has needs, even high-functioning sociopaths and the emotionally retarded."

He continued to stare at me, as if thinking it over in his mind. He finally came to a conclusion and opened his mouth to speak.

The door burst open and Mrs. Hudson came shuffling in, carrying a tray. "Thought you might like some tea, although I'm not the housekeeper, of course."

She placed the tray down on the table that was least covered in papers. Sherlock turned away, threw the walking stick into the air and caught it. I thanked Mrs. Hudson for the tea.

"Hope he's not being too obnoxious, Melanie." She said to me. "It's the boredom, you see? Does strange things to his head."

"Oh, no, he's fine." I replied, "Well, you know, not fine, but as fine as Sherlock can be."

Sherlock speedily stood and made his way to the other side of the room. I watched as he dug around under some books, pulled something out, drew his shirt sleeve up and slapped something down onto his arm. I pulled myself up to see what it was. A nicotine patch. To add to the two that were already there.

"Oh, Sherlock, you really shouldn't use three at once." Mrs. Hudson expressed.

"Wow, you must have had a serious smoking habit."

"Yes, well, I suppose it's better than that."

"Yeah, cause having three times the recommended amount of nicotine in his system is so healthy."

"Well, I've tried telling him but he just won't-"

"Shut up!" Sherlock suddenly snapped at us. Mrs. Hudson and I both stood in silent shock at his outburst. We watched as he began pacing up and down the living room. Finally he stopped, sighed, and turned back to us.

"My apologies, Mrs. Hudson," he said politely, "It was lovely of you to bring us some tea."

She sighed and patted me on the shoulder. "I'll leave you to deal with him, dear."

She left the room, shutting the door behind her. Sherlock was pacing again.

"Sherlock, lo-"

I jumped as he all of a sudden let out an angry groan and threw the walking stick against the fire place behind me, where it crashed and snapped into two. I stood completely still, more than a little part of me scared by this angry Sherlock.

"I'm so bored!" he shouted.

I almost laughed. "I thou-"

I didn't get to finish my sentence.

Before I even knew what had hit me Sherlock had crossed the gap between us, pulled my face upwards, and shoved his lips down onto mine.

For a second I just stood there, the plain shock overwhelming me. Then my senses caught up with me and my body took over, my mind left somewhere dark and unimportant. I leant into him, my eyes closed, my hands reaching up and settling on his shoulders, my lips relishing in the feeling of Sherlock's own. I had only made the slightest of movements with my tongue before his lips parted and his tongue invaded my mouth.

Then suddenly, with me still clinging on, he pulled away and stepped back.

He turned away and began walking towards the stairs leading upwards. I stood there, my mind in complete shatters. He was half-way up the stairs by the time I heard him calling.

"You joining me?"

I shook my head, trying to clear some of the fog from my mind.

After that little escapade?

Hell yes I was joining him.

* * *

I could hear voices from downstairs as I made my way towards them, one step at a time. John was obviously back from wherever he had been that afternoon.

"All I'm saying is that you could at least _try_ to tidy things up. It's not like you've had anything else to do. I bet you haven't even got out of that chair."

"I've been busy."

"Playing solitaire on your phone does not count as busy."

"I don't play solitaire."

I reached the bottom of the stairs and scanned the room. John was in the kitchen, seeming to be putting some shopping away. Sherlock was indeed in the same chair as he had been when I first arrived. He looked like he was texting somebody. Well, at least he wasn't throwing objects into walls to see how they would cope with the impact.

"You look happier." I commented.

John came out of the kitchen and saw me.

"Oh, hi Melanie." He said before returning to the kitchen. There was second's pause, then his startled face popped out again, eyes wide, looking me up and down several times. I guessed he had only just realised that it was odd for me to be there, and even more odd that I should have come down from the bedrooms dressed only in one of Sherlock's shirts and boxer shorts. I tried to keep back my laughter at his expression. "What- you- how-"

He kept on looking between me and Sherlock disbelievingly.

"But-"

"Yeah." I agreed simply, hoping it might stop the stammering.

John was still staring and pointing at me as Sherlock elegantly stood, his eyes on his phone in his hands, and grabbed his coat.

"New case, John!" he yelled to his flatmate as he swiftly crossed the room and walked out of the door, not even glancing at me in the process.

John snapped out of his daze, gave me a very odd look, before following Sherlock out of the flat.

I glanced around the empty apartment.

"I'll just see myself out, shall I?"

* * *

_Ok, so obviously the last chapter wasn't very good since hardly anyone reviewed. (Thank you if you did!) Hopefully this was better. _

_Even if it wasn't, review?_


	6. Inclusion

**Six**  
_**Inclusion**_

I ran the towel through my wet hair, the wavy strands dripping onto the centre of my back, as I walked out of the bathroom and across the living room. My bare feet sank into the deep cream carpet with every step, causing a tickling sensation to dance across my heels. I was almost at the door to my bedroom when I realised I had forgotten my hairbrush in the kitchen and turned back to fetch it.

"Oh my God!" I yelled in surprise, quickly bringing the towel down from my hair and covering my very naked body. "You know, just once it would be nice if you knocked… or at least announced your presence so that I didn't have a fricking heart attack every time I saw you."

Sherlock sat on my couch, staring straight at me without a hint of emotion, his fingers steepled in front of him. "You weren't there when I got back."

I sighed, wrapping the towel around me so as to preserve _some_ of my dignity. I could only assume he was talking about Thursday evening. "Yes."

His eyes narrowed. "Why?"

I went and sat on the computer chair next to the desk, ensuring that the towel didn't shift in the process. Sherlock's gaze had followed me. "Because you can't expect me to hang around your apartment for God knows how long waiting for you to get back and start rambling incoherently about some case or the other. I think that there may just be better things to do in this world."

Sherlock didn't say anything in response.

I rolled my eyes. "And judging by the fact that this is _Saturday_, I'm guessing you didn't even notice my absence until this morning."

From his silence, I could tell I had hit the nail on the head. He had probably been too absorbed in that new case of his to notice anything much. The building probably could have caught on fire and he'd stay inside, staring at the walls, trying to come up with the answer, while fire-fighters rushed around trying to put the flames out.

"You've washed your hair." He said suddenly.

"Very observant."

"So you are going out with Becky tonight, after all."

I ran my fingers through my sodden hair. "Uh, yeah I guess."

Sherlock just sat there, the great conversationalist he was. I sighed and stood up. "I have to get ready for work."

I had just taken my first step towards the kitchen to get my hairbrush when Sherlock suddenly decided it was time to move. He strode over to me, rested one hand on the towel around my waist, and pulled my chin gently upwards with the other. I didn't have time to react before he placed his lips onto mine. My head was starting to feel blurry again as the touch washed over me. But I couldn't. I had to pull away.

"I can't be late today." I told him breathily. He stared into my eyes, his face impassive.

"Really?"

I was heavily tempted to just forget about work and stay there with Sherlock, but my common sense wouldn't allow it. I stepped begrudgingly out of his grasp, certain parts of my anatomy screaming in protest.

"You're bored." I pointed out. He frowned. "What happened to that case of yours? You can't have solved it already."

With a small groan he turned away and collapsed onto the couch again. "It was dull."

I cocked my head to one side. "Then how about John? What's he doing today?"

"He's visiting his alcoholic sister."

I don't know why, but I suddenly felt rather sorry for Sherlock. Trapped in that brain of his, without the luxury of mindless escape the rest of us could achieve by relaxing. He had to always be active. The word holiday was probably forbidden in the Holmes house.

"Well, find something to amuse yourself. Why don't you try to learn something new, like a language? I think I've still got some of my elementary Pali textbooks if you'd like-"

"I do not clutter up my brain with useless information." He said. I was tempted to let him know my thoughts on just how useless Pali was when it had helped him solve a case not half a week ago, but held it back knowing it would get me nowhere.

"So, you want to do something that involves no new information getting into your brain?" I puzzled it over in my mind, thinking about the possibilities. Then it hit me. "Oh! _Loose_ _Women_!"

He looked at me, one eyebrow raised. "I thought I had found one, but now she says she has to work. Or are you suggesting I roam the streets for prostitutes? Because that doesn't appeal to me."

I let my mouth hang open for a second. Then I collected my thoughts and glared at him. "Ok, firstly, I am _not_ loose. Just because I'm somewhat challenged in the emotions departed does not mean that I'm some slut. I only sleep with guys I actually have fun with and like." I paused before adding, "And you. And secondly, I'm not talking about actual loose women. It's a TV show. Requires absolutely no mental activity at all. Actually, all the day time shows on ITV are like that. And I'm sure you'd entertain yourself by deciphering who was having an affair with whom and the like. Just turn on channel three and you're set."

Sherlock simply stood, scoffed, and walked out of my apartment, the door slamming on his way out.

That guy seriously needed to look up the words hello and goodbye in a dictionary.

* * *

"I saw Dan the other day."

I took a small sip of the Dry Manhattan in my hand, gazing casually around the bar. It was pretty busy, but not nearly as much as I knew the nightclubs in the area would get on a Saturday night. I shifted and crossed my legs, resting my left foot on the lower ledge of the barstool I was sitting on.

"Really?" I asked, half of me not caring about her answer and the other half not wanting to hear it.

"Yeah, he's still pretty torn up. I can't believe you didn't accept! You'd been dating for like a year and were practically living together anyway!"

I sighed and gave Becky the same response as I had done at least seven times before now. "It just wasn't right."

Becky let out a short laugh of disbelief, her short platinum blonde ringlets bouncing as she did. I gave her a smile.

"Things happen, hun."

"Yes, they do."

I choked and almost dropped the glass. I most definitely knew that voice. But it couldn't be? Could it? God, let it not be! I swung my head around to see who it was now leaning over my shoulder.

"Sh- Sherlock?"

"Who else would it be?"

There was something very strange about his voice. And his face. Very strange indeed. Oh my God, he was smiling a proper happy, in no way smug, smile! This was too odd. I therefore almost fainted when he proceeded to kiss my cheek.

He turned to Becky, who was giving me a wary expression. Sherlock extended a hand to her. "Sherlock Holmes, I assume you're Becky? I've heard so much about you."

What. The. Hell.

"Oh, really?" Becky laughed and took his hand. She looked pointedly at me. "I, on the other hand, have not heard anything about you. Have I, Melly?"

It was Sherlock's turn to laugh. I marvelled at how natural it sounded. Not at all fake. Which it must be. Surely?

"I'm sure Melanie was just waiting for a good time to tell you." He dismissed.

I did not like this new Sherlock. He seemed… _nice_.

"Well," Becky said as she stood up, "I need to go use the bathroom. I'll let you guys say hello properly. And, Melly, when I come back I want to know all the details. _All_ of them."

I watched in shock as she walked away. Sherlock took up her space on the barstool. It took a good two minutes for my brain to rearrange itself into something a bit more useful than the jumbled mess it was.

"_What_," I finally made out in a harsh whisper, "_are you doing_?"

I was somewhat pleased to see Sherlock's face back to normal, without all that horrid cheerfulness.

"Finding something to amuse myself." He answered annoyingly, quoting my words from this morning. "_Melly_."

"Shut up." I quickly told him. I hated that nickname. And I hated it even more coming out of Sherlock's mouth. "What was with that… that… that _attitude_ you were using with Becky?"

He smirked at me. "Would you prefer it if I were my usual self?"

"No!" I answered far too quickly. I supposed Sherlock had a point, though. While I was intrigued by the crazy sociopath in front of me, I didn't think Becky would take so warmly to him. It wouldn't take long before she went running and screaming out of this room.

Sherlock took my glass from out of my hands and sipped the liquid. "You do know why Becky's brought you here, don't you?"

My frustration evaporated. "What?"

"Rearrange your dress – the man in the corner's currently attempting to glimpse your undergarments."

"Wait," I said, but nevertheless shifted the blue material so that it covered a bit more of my thighs, "what did you mean by that? What's Becky got to do with anything?"

Sherlock took another drink from my glass before passing it back to me. I frowned at him.

"Sher-"

"Hiya!" Becky exclaimed happily, having returned from the bathroom. "Right, well, Sherlock, why don't you get yourself a drink and me and Melly will go find a table? Good."

She tugged me off of the stool, almost spilling my Manhattan in the process, and started whisking me away towards a free table at the back.

When we were a safe distance away from Sherlock she leaned forwards and whispered into my ear.

"Well done, girl! He's gorgeous! And so polite!"

Yeah, that was Sherlock, alright.

* * *

"And then the pineapple said to the grapefruit, 'That's my boat'!"

Sherlock laughed at Becky's joke, the false charming persona in full use. I laughed too. Although having a creepy happy Sherlock around – let alone sitting strangely close, with one arm wrapped around my waist – had put a damper on my spirits, it was always fun having a night out with Becky. She was so bubbly, sometimes annoyingly so, but right now I think a little cheeriness is what I needed. No one can put up with the miseries of Sherlock forever.

"So, err, Melly," Becky said when we had stopped laughing. I raised an eyebrow at her. She bit her bottom lip nervously before draining the rest of her drink. "Ok, so there is actually something I wanted to talk to you about tonight."

I frowned. Sherlock had said something like this was coming.

"What?" I asked. Becky glanced at Sherlock. I waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, don't mind him."

No, seriously, don't. He probably already knew anyway.

"Well… Ok." It looked as if she was siking herself up for something. She wasn't meeting my gaze. "For the last month or so… well… I've been seeing someone."

Ok? Well, that was… really dull actually.

"Who?"

She grimaced, as if she had hoped I hadn't asked her that. Then, very quietly, she muttered, "Luke."

"Luke? Luke who? What's he li-" I froze. My face dropped. My eyes widened. I shook my head. "No. No. You're joking, right? Cause that's… It's ridiculous. No way in hell would you be going out with my _big brother_?"

"Sorry." She murmured.

I turned to Sherlock. "_You_ _knew_!"

He drank from his own glass calmly, "Yes."

"Sherlock, you cannot- Sherlock!" I shouted at the figure that had quickly risen and was now retreating to the bar's entrance. I curved my head around to face Becky again. She looked extremely confused. "Sorry, got to go. I'll call you tomorrow."

I stood, swept up my coat, then ran out of the bar after Sherlock. He was just climbing into a taxi when I spotted him. I swiftly caught up and slid in after him, shutting the door behind me. Sherlock didn't look surprised at all.

"Baker Street." He told the driver.

"Sherlock!" I yelled, my anger getting the best of me. He sighed and dug his phone out of his pocket. I was not going to let him ignore me this time. "First you show up uninvited at my apartment, then you have a bloody arm in your bathtub, then you-"

* * *

"Sherlock! Answer me now!"

I heard the door upstairs shut. I growled and swung around.

John sat in one of the armchairs, his face shocked. I guessed he wasn't exactly expecting me to burst into the flat after Sherlock, shouting and complaining. To be honest I hadn't been expecting my rants to last the entire journey back to Baker Street without one single interruption from Sherlock.

I sighed and ran a hand through my loose hair. I needed to calm down.

"You alright, Melanie?" John asked me.

I laughed and nodded. "Obviously."

"Want a cup of tea?"

I shook my head. "No, it's alright. Sorry for disturbing you. I'll, err, I'll just, yeah."

I backed up a few steps. John still looked worried. I turned and, far more peacefully, trotted up the stairs to the bedrooms. I opened one of the doors. Sherlock was sitting on the bed, as if expecting me. Which he probably was, I reminded myself.

I went and sat next to him.

"You could have just told me about Becky." I said, staring at the floor in front of me, "I'm not even angry about it, just surprised."

"I know."

"And I shouldn't have yelled at you like that, it must just be the stress from the last few days catching up with me."

I lifted my head and looked at Sherlock. He was staring fixedly at the wall in front of him, a look of concentration on his face. He was silent for a few seconds before speaking.

"The question is whether Coleen Nolan knows her fiancé's having an affair or not."

My jaw dropped. I pointed at him, laughter lighting up my eyes.

"You _did_ watch it!"

* * *

_Sherlock enjoys Loose Women, yes he does._

_Oh, did anyone watch Mitchell and Webb last night? The Sherlock scene was so sad._

_Anyways, yay I got reviews again! More would be nice? God I'm a greedy pig._


	7. Indifference

**Seven**  
_**Indifference**_

I had spent Saturday night at Sherlock's place, and then most of Sunday.

It was weird really – mine and Sherlock's relationship. We most definitely weren't lovers, or even casual boyfriend and girlfriend. I don't know if I could even describe him as a friend. But as I sat there, talking to him and John (well, mainly John; Sherlock apparently doesn't do conversations that don't involve references to bloody cadavers) I felt strangely welcome. There was an ease between us. Probably because I didn't have to pretend to be the same as everyone else around him, wanting nothing but to fall in love, get married and have lots of little kiddies. And I in turn didn't think of him as a freak. He was different. But then so was I.

But that did _not_ mean I wanted to know about his experiments.

Especially after finding a bin bag full of what looked like cat food under the kitchen sink last night. I chose not to ask. Then it could still be cat food.

"Take my card."

I heard the voice from downstairs faintly, as I stepped out of Sherlock's room, yawning.

"You could always go yourself, you know. You've been sitting there all morning – you haven't even moved since I left. And what happened about that case, the missing diamond?"

"Not interested."

I plodded down the steps, scratching my forehead. These late nights were playing havoc with my brain.

"I sent them a message."

I reached the bottom of the stairs, grateful that it was a Wednesday and I had been able to sleep in so late.

John was walking towards the front door. He gave me a weak smile before leaving, but I had a sneaky suspicion it wasn't completely heartfelt. I hoped Sherlock hadn't done anything too outrageous.

"Morning." I greeted the man who was busy reading in one of the armchairs. Apparently too busy to reply, it seemed. I went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. "What were you doing down here this morning?"

Sherlock turned a page in his book. "Nothing. Why?"

I shrugged. "No reason. I thought I was woken up by some strange noises at one point, but I was probably just dreaming."

"Probably."

I made myself a cup of tea then went and sat down on the other armchair. I was about half my way through the mug when I noticed the furniture.

"Sherlock, why are there scratches on the furnishings? Big, heavy scratches. It looks like someone's been hacking at it with a- Oh my God, Sherlock! Is that a _sword_?"

Sherlock didn't look up from his book to see where I was pointing. From that alone I could tell he already knew about the object under his chair. "Yes, I believe it is."

I stared at him in disbelief. "So in your boredom you've taken to cutting up your possessions with a _sword_ now?"

Sherlock didn't respond. He tactfully changed the subject. "You're going to be late for your squash game."

I rolled my eyes and drank some more of the tea. "You mean the one I haven't told you about?"

"You hardly needed to."

I let out a chuckle. This man seemed to know what I was doing before I did, and meanwhile he could be playing with sharp objects right downstairs while I was sleeping and I would have no clue whatsoever.

I drained the rest of my tea in a few large gulps and stood.

"I'll go take a shower." I said, walking back into the kitchen to put the mug into the sink. "I trust I won't find any severed limbs in the process?"

Sherlock actually had to think about this for a second. Finally he answered. "No. I removed them last night."

I tried not to think about that.

* * *

By the fact that Sherlock had neither turned up in my living room uninvited last night nor chosen to bother me at work today, I guessed he had found something to occupy himself. And while I didn't particularly want to get involved in anything requiring detailed observations of corpses, I did want my phone.

Which was why I was heading back to flat 221b in my lunch hour on Thursday.

I must have left it somewhere in the chaos that counted as their lounge.

Mrs. Hudson had opened the front door to me, but had then rushed off to deal with something else, and I trotted up the steps to the apartment alone. I didn't even bother knocking, knowing full well that Sherlock wouldn't answer.

"Have you seen my phone?" I asked as I walked into the room. Sherlock was standing in front of the fireplace, staring in concentration at photos on the wall.

"On the table." He told me. I went over to the table and began rifling under the many sheets of paper that was cluttering it.

"New case?"

"Yes."

"Involving dead bodies?"

"Yes."

I finally located my phone and picked it up. "Then I don't want to know."

I opened the mobile and checked the messages. There were several from Paul, my squash partner, asking me why I was late yesterday, but not much else. I looked up at Sherlock, who hadn't moved since I had arrived, trying not to focus on the pictures behind him.

Suddenly his head snapped around. "Oh, I'm so stupid!"

I really didn't think he was, but didn't have time to voice my thoughts as he was soon in front of me, his hands on my shoulders and a determined look in his eyes. "Melanie, you're a historian!"

"Uh," I said warily, "I guess. Have you only just noticed?"

But he was off again. He snatched one of the photographs off of the wall then returned, holding it out in his hand. I didn't look down.

"Dead body?"

"No."

I sighed in relief – there was no way I was going to analyse photos of corpses for him – and took the picture from him. It was some form of graffiti, written across an old painting of some posh guy I didn't recognise, mainly because he head wasn't in the frame. The graffiti looked like some form of symbols, big and bold in yellow against the dark background.

"Do you know what it is?" Sherlock asked, sounding a tiny bit desperate.

I examined the image, searching my mind.

"No." I answered. Sherlock almost growled as he turned away. "But I think I've seen it before. Somewhere."

Sherlock swept around again. "The museum?"

I shrugged. "Maybe. I could try to find it if you wanted?"

"Yes." Sherlock returned to staring at the wall. "As quickly as possible if you'd please. Lives may depend on it."

I swallowed.

That was some responsibility.

* * *

I had been searching through stacks of museum references for over two hours, hoping against hope to find something that was at least similar to the graffiti.

The problem was, this museum was big. Really big. Not so much in size but definitely in contents. It did not help that the symbols could be from any of the many nations represented by the museum, and I had no idea where to start. At least I could almost completely rule out South Asia. It certainly wasn't from any of the main languages I knew. But that still left a lot of museum to cover.

"Oh, Melanie, I don't usually see you up here."

I closed the large book detailing some of the scriptures from the Middle-Eastern gallery and looked at the person who had walked into the general archive. Professor Brian Houghton was an older gentleman, around fifty or so, and his hair was starting to grey. His short beard was already snow white, giving him the appearance of a slightly thinner and tidier Father Christmas.

"No, but I'm looking for something that isn't from my department." I told him with a sigh.

"Really? What?" He asked, walking around the desks to get to me. I held out the photograph of the graffiti for him to take. He shifted his glasses and took it. "This is odd."

"I know."

"Why would someone spray paint Hangzhou on a portrait like that?"

"Exact- What?"

Brian passed the photograph back to me, looking confused. "Don't you know what this is?" I shook my head. "It's Hangzhou. An ancient Chinese numbering system. Not really used much today, but still common amongst street traders."

I swiftly pulled out a piece of paper and a pen and handed them over to the head of Chinese artefacts.

"Can you write it down for me?"

* * *

_Sherlock, I've found it! It's Hangzhou, a Chinese numbering system!_

My thumbs darted over the keys on the phone as I texted. It was less than twenty seconds before I got a reply.

_I know._

I scoffed. Did that mean I had been working my butt off trying to work this out for nothing? That man was so inconsiderate!

_What do you mean 'you know'? Where are you?_

The response took slightly longer this time, but it came nonetheless.

_Chinatown. Send me a translation._

I sighed but did as told. I snapped a picture of Brian's handwritten list of numbers and symbols and sent it to Sherlock's phone. I leaned back in my chair and removed my reading glasses.

I was positive Sherlock wouldn't reply now. It wasn't like him to waste valuable time texting when he could be solving a case.

I had helped him when he needed it, but now he didn't.

And I didn't exist.

* * *

_Just to let you know, this story isn't going to be full of soppy lovey-dovey scenes, coz that just isn't Sherlock. But you'll be able to see Melanie and him gradually get closer, though not in such a blatantly romantic way._

_Review time? Please? I'll give you a virtual hug?_


	8. Inadequacy

**Eight**  
_**Inadequacy**_

"Dr. Hunt, there's a woman here asking about research opportunities, she says she was advised to come talk to you and that you'd know who she was."

I put down the pen in my hand and looked up at the Gallery Assistant who had previously knocked on my office door.

"What's her name?" I asked.

"Laura Williams, I think."

Ah, well, that explained it. Nancy had asked me a while ago if her university friend would be able to get a placement at the museum. I had almost completely forgotten about it actually. But Nancy had ensured me that Laura was a good worker and surprisingly intelligent, and who was I to turn down my little sister's friend without so much as a chance?

"Show her up here."

The Gallery Assistant retreated and I picked my glasses off of my nose and placed them on the table. The door opened again and a pretty black girl entered the room. I stood and held out my hand.

"Hi, I'm Melanie, you must be Laura."

Her handshake was fairly limp and I could tell she was nervous. "It's really nice to meet you, Dr. Hunt."

I sat back into my chair. "Melanie, please." I indicated the chair opposite the desk and Laura sat, fiddling with the hem of her blazer's sleeves. "So, Nancy tells me you're interested in-"

The vibrations from my phone reverberated off of the desk.

"Sorry," I told Laura, picking up the phone, "I'll turn it off."

And I would have, if I hadn't read the words on the screen.

_1 new message  
From: Sherlock_

I smiled at Laura, hoping she might calm down a bit. I could always ignore him. If he had solved the case then he was probably just bugging me with some stupid question like always, such as who Lady Gaga was and why there was a train called Thomas. But then again, it could be something about the Hangzhou I'd found for him on Thursday. Oh, sod it.

"Sorry." I told Laura before opening the phone and pressing '_read'_.

_We're going out tonight.  
SH _

Oh, were we now? He seemed pretty certain of that. I, however, was not quite so sure. I put the phone back on the desk to one side. Just ignore him and he'll go away.

"Anyway," I looked at Laura again. She seemed even more nervous, if that was possible. "Getting back to what I was saying. Nancy told me you we're interested in-"

The phone buzzed again.

I sighed, gave Laura an apologetic gaze then checked the text.

_On a date, by the way.  
SH_

If I had been drinking anything I would have choked.

Did Sherlock Holmes just ask me on a date?

_Sherlock Holmes_?

The same man who thought _Saw_ was a romantic comedy?

"Sorry, Laura, I, err, really have to call someone." I could tell Laura was about to wet herself but didn't really care at that moment. I stood and made my way towards the door. "It'll only take a minute I promise. And then we can actually talk about a placement."

"Um, ok."

I had barely shut the door behind me before I had found Sherlock's number in my contacts and was dialling. Just once, could he please pick up the bloody phone?

The ringing stopped.

"_What is it_?"

Wow, he actually answered.

"Sherlock, what the hell did you mean by that text?" I whispered into the phone, suddenly aware that I was in a hallway.

"_I thought it was obvious_." He voice came back calmly. "_A date_. _It's where two people who like each other go out and have fun."_

I sighed. "I know what a date is, idiot, I'm just surprised that you do."

"_Of course I know what a date is._ _We're going on one. Tonight."_

I gave up. There was no point telling this man that it was conventional to _ask_ the other person out, not order them. There was however, one other problem. "I can't tonight; I'm busy."

"_Cancel it."_

"Sherlock, it's my birthday party."

"_Cancel it_."

"I can't cancel my birthday party!" I exclaimed. Then a horrible thought occurred to me. "And don't you dare think of turning up and being all nicey-nicey with my friends!"

"_What time does it start_?"

"I am not te-"

"_The time, Melanie, quickly."_

I threw my free hand into the air in defeat. "Eleven, alright?"

"_Great, you can go to that after going on our date_."

"Sher-"

"_Nine o'clock." _He interrupted, not hearing any of my arguments._ "I'll send you the address_."

He hung up. I stared at the phone in my hand in confusion.

The address? The address for what?

* * *

"This is not a date." I told Sherlock as I walked beside him up the sloping pavement. We were heading towards an attractive old building, the entrance of which was covered in many red Chinese lanterns. I had been surprised to find him waiting for me at the end of the road, knowing full well that I was lucky he hadn't run on in without me, but now I saw the building I realised why he had taken me here.

"Why not?" he asked, ploughing forwards through the people in the street, "We're two people going out in order to have fun."

"No we're not. We're one person who was basically ordered to show up here, and another who wished to come for some case he's working on."

Sherlock stopped and turned to me, an eyebrow raised. "Why do you say that?"

I smiled and rolled my eyes.

"Well, this looks like some Chinese event, and seeing as only two days ago you were looking for the answer to some Chinese cipher, I'm guessing the two are linked." I dug my hands further into my pockets, trying to escape the cold. "But that clue was hardly necessary when you think about the other one."

Sherlock gave me a curious look, as if he was slightly impressed. "What other one?"

I laughed.

"Sherlock, you asked me on a _date_."

He swept around and began striding up the stairs towards the building's entrance. I jogged along to keep up. "Yes, well, granted it was a little uncharacteristic of me."

I scoffed. "A little?"

* * *

I unwrapped my scarf from around my neck as soon as I got inside the warmth of the building. Sherlock wasn't paying me any attention. He was just strolling up towards the ticket kiosk. My face dropped as I saw why. Bloody hell, he didn't? Oh God, he did, didn't he? I groaned and trotted on after him.

"Actually we have four in that name."

John looked confused as he spoke to the man inside the kiosk. "No, I don't think so, we only booked two."

"And I phoned back and got two for myself and Melanie as well." Sherlock announced his presence to his flatmate and what looked to me suspiciously like this flatmate's date. And knowing John it was probably an actual date, not a Sherlock one. The date looked surprised. John just looked annoyed. I gave him what I hoped was a sympathetic look.

Sherlock held out a hand to John's date. "I'm Sherlock."

"Uh," the girl said, somewhat bemused, but took his hand anyway, "Hi."

"Hello."

I sighed and felt my head droop in hopelessness as he then proceeded to dash off somewhere else, not saying anything more explanatory. I shook my head, but offered my hand to the date.

"Melanie."

She took it, still seeming a little uncertain, "Sarah."

* * *

"I'm sorry about this, by the way. I swear I had no idea we'd be crashing your date."

"Oh, it's fine." Sarah said as we meandered down the hallway in the direction the signs were pointing us to. John had run on ahead, in all likelihood to confront Sherlock about his behaviour, and I was trying to make Sarah feel a bit less lost. Sherlock tended to do that to people.

"Really?" I asked sceptically.

"Well, honestly?" She looked at me, with an awkward smile on her face, "It is a bit weird."

I laughed. "That's Sherlock, I'm afraid. He doesn't always remember the proper social etiquette."

That was putting it likely, but I didn't want to scare this girl off before she even got to know John, and somehow telling her that his roommate was a crime-solving sociopath didn't seem exactly right at the time.

"Are you and him…?"

"I'm not his girlfriend." I told her plainly. "It's uh… it's complicated."

We rounded the corner and began up the narrow stairs to where John was standing with Sherlock.

"When I'm trying to get off with Sarah!" John spotted us next to him. A nervous expression crossed his face. "Heeyyy… You ready?"

I tried not to laugh and skipped up the steps to Sherlock who was already making his way away from us. I kept up with him as he walked, placing my hand on his arm and leaning closer to him so as not to be overheard.

"I'm afraid this is definitely not one of your high-functioning moments."

* * *

The 'circus' – or as John had rightly pointed out, art – began with an exciting escapology act. Sarah was a bit too animated in her fright at a particularly loud gong to make her grasp onto John completely believable. I didn't even bother trying to touch Sherlock. He seemed far more interested in staring off at something behind the stage area than my company.

It was halfway through the act – the weight was being lowered, the Warrior looked like he wouldn't escape in time, and the crossbow was perched menacingly – when I noticed the movement from my side. I looked and saw Sherlock was edging his way around the crowd. I frowned. He was so going to cause some trouble tonight.

I rolled my eyes and turned back to the show. If Sherlock really did cause a scene, then at least I'd have a story to tell at my party later.

And anyway, any problem he might cause couldn't be too bad, could it?

I watched as the circus brought out its next act, a traditional aerial ribbons performance I had seen before on my short trip to China eight years ago, impressed but not as awestricken as the rest of the audience seemed to be. My mind kept wandering to Sherlock and what he was doing. Maybe I was a little more nervous than I had thought I was.

The curtains behind the stage rustled and then, dramatically, Sherlock fell through them.

I gasped as I saw the man in the costume leap out after him.

I didn't know what to do. Ideas kept popping up in my mind, but each one swiftly vanished without giving me time to think about them. How could I make a decision if I didn't know what the options were?

The costumed man raised a nasty looking weapon above his head, ready to strike Sherlock.

I knew I should do something. Anything. But my feet wouldn't move. They wouldn't follow my instincts. They would only follow my thoughts and logic. And right now my logic was shot.

John, being the soldier he was, didn't have this problem. He ran and knocked the costumed man backwards.

Why didn't I think of that? It was so obvious! And yet I still hadn't moved from my spot. I could only watch as the man recovered and kicked John away.

He was going after Sherlock again. I saw it in my mind. My brain recognised the consequences of his future actions. It analysed the impact of the weapon. But it wouldn't bloody plan what I could do to stop it!

Sarah appeared out of nowhere, a makeshift bat in her hands. She hit the costumed man hard twice and he fell.

I stood and watched.

"Come on, let's go!" Sherlock had almost passed me when he grabbed my arm. "Melanie, I think it's time to leave!"

I nodded and let him lead me away from the scene of the short but violent fight. My mind really wasn't working properly. The next thing I remember clearly was standing on the pavement outside, Sherlock hailing down a taxi.

It looked like a bizarre thing to do.

They were all piling inside. John got in and held the door open expectantly.

My brain kicked in. Sort of.

"I've got to go." I said through my daze.

"Obviously, so come on." John told me.

I shook my head. Everything seemed kind of hazy, but not necessarily in a bad way. "I've got a party. I'll be late."

"Melanie, you can't be serious, we need to get out of here. Get in the cab."

"No, I'll take the tube, it'll be easier." I muttered, looking around to find out where the station was that I had spotted earlier.

"What are you on abo-"

"Haven't got time, John." I heard Sherlock pipe up before the door of the taxi was slammed shut.

I was still looking around, trying to work out where I was exactly, when the black cab drove off, leaving me alone behind.

* * *

_This one was a bit odd wasn't it? I'm not too sure about it. What do you guys think?_


	9. Incompatibility

**Nine**  
_**Incompatibility **_

I groaned loudly, my head spinning.

Very slowly, I tried to open my eyes. The light felt like it was burning my corneas and I quickly shut them again as I reached up and rubbed my forehead.

"Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty."

Another groan left my dry mouth. My eyelids turned orange and the colossal sound of curtains being opened sent the nerves in my brain into overdrive.

"It's your own fault you feel like that, so no self-pity, thank you."

I squinted my eyes open a crack and heaved myself up into a position that was half-way between lying and sitting, resting on my elbows.

"Lucas?" I made out in one of the gruffest voices I had ever used. My eyes were beginning to adapt to the light now, and I could make out the dirty red of my couch beneath me and the beige of my apartment walls. I almost fell off the sofa when someone knocked my legs away and sat where they had been resting. I managed to recover and slumped my upper body against the armrest.

"Yep." The person told me before shoving something hot into my hands. "Drink this."

I shook my head and blinked, some of the mud clearing from my brain. I peered down at the steaming mug in my hands, containing pitch black liquid. I sniffed it. Coffee. I took a sip and gagged.

"What's in this?"

"Coffee, Tabasco, egg and bourbon. Should perk you up a bit."

I grimaced. "It's disgusting."

"That'll be the raw egg. Drink up."

I looked up at Lucas. The mirror reflection of my own dark brown eyes was giving me a patronizing stare. His choppy brown hair was damp, as if he had washed it an hour or so ago and it was half-way through drying. He nodded tersely at the miserable concoction. I made a face but nevertheless took another gulp, trying not to spew it everywhere.

"What, err, happened last night?" I asked timidly, having only just noticed I was still in the woollen dress I had worn on my 'date' with Sherlock.

"I was hoping you could tell me that." My brother said. I frowned. "All I know is that you turned up to your party half an hour late, spouting some nonsense about Chinese detectives, before proceeding to turn your attention to alcohol. A lot of it."

"Oh, God." I moaned. At least that explained why my spine was currently attempting to strangle my brain with my spleen.

Lucas narrowed his eyes at me. "Who's Sherlock?"

"Huh?"

"You kept talking about some guy called Sherlock last night, saying what an arse he is, but that it was alright cause he's amazing in bed." He looked away from me and sighed. "Really could have done without hearing that come from my little sister, you know?"

I kicked him and he let out a chuckle. I pinched the bridge of my nose in hung-over self-annoyance. I would have to blurt those kind of things out to everyone, wouldn't I? I was just that cool.

"I'd have thought Becky would have told you about him? You being so close and all."

"Don't hate the player." I kicked him again. "Ow! Alright, alright! So you mean that guy who turned up on your night out with Becky, who you ran off after in the middle of an important conversation – that was this Sherlock dude?"

I nodded.

"Sounds like a dick t- Stop kicking me!"

I did, after throwing in a few extra kicks for good measure, and we smiled at each other, Lucas rolling his eyes. I could always count on him to cheer me up. And to look after me when I had had a couple too many. But that had only happened a couple of times before when he was around. And last night there had been exceptional circumstances. A thought occurred to me, bringing back memories from the circus.

"Lucas, have you ever been in a fight?" I asked cautiously. "Like a physical one."

He frowned at me. "Who have you been fighting?"

I shook my head from side to side. "No one. But that's the point."

"Huh?" he asked as he cocked his head to the side. "Are you still drunk?"

I laughed. It didn't matter. Just because I had stood there like a perfect fool yesterday while the shit was hitting the fan, didn't mean I was hopeless. And normal people didn't need to be able to fight. It was only in Sherlock's screwed up little world where it was necessary. People usually didn't go to a Chinese circus and end up being chased out by deadly acrobats. Lucas' smile slowly vanished, and was replaced with a look of concern.

"You would tell me if you were in some sort of trouble, wouldn't you, Annie?"

I took another drink of the gross mixture, screwing up my face as the taste hit the back of my throat. "Gah. Course. Why?"

"It's just," he said seriously, "last night, in the taxi on the way back here, you were saying something about a cipher and dead bodies? Not exactly your usual drunken ramblings."

"Oh, no, that's not, well, don't worry. It's nothing to do with me."

"Good." He said while standing up. He walked towards the kitchen area. "Because it's not really your thing, is it? Excitement and adventure and really wild things?"

I sat silently.

No, I suppose it really wasn't.

* * *

I glanced at the wall above the fireplace, noticing the severe lack of photographs.

"You solved the case?"

"Yes." Sherlock replied as he typed away on John's laptop. "You missed the fun."

Somehow, I doubted that. Suddenly I was rather pleased that I had spaced out and gone to my party instead of running after Sherlock. His idea of fun and mine were rather different.

I bit my lip, standing halfway between the armchairs and the door. Part of me didn't like why I was here. The other part was just grateful I had seen sense.

"Look, Sherlock, I-"

"How's your head?" he interrupted me. I blinked, caught off-guard by his question.

"Oh, it's not too bad. Bit sore." Sherlock finished typing and closed the computer. He stood, sweeping on his coat over the grey suit. I frowned. "Where are you going?"

"Scotland Yard." He stopped and looked at me. "Do you want to come?"

Another question to catch me off-guard. Why would he invite me to Scotland Yard after last night's awful performance?

"That's why I'm here, Sherlock. I need to tell you-"

"Tell me when I get back." He said brusquely, heading past me towards the door. He had almost reached it by the time I reacted. I ran and slammed into the door, ensuring he couldn't leave. I glared at him, having had enough of this. He didn't look surprised at all.

"_No. I'll tell you now_." I told him forcibly.

He checked his watch. "Make it quick."

I scoffed. "You already know, don't you?"

His gaze met mine, not a hint of any emotions coming forth. I internally squirmed under that gaze. It was just so cold.

"That you are here to tell me you don't wish to see me again? Yes, I already know."

A guilty feeling swarmed my insides. I softened my expression. "Don't you even want an explanation?"

"I doubt you'll be able to tell me anything I haven't worked out for myself, but you can try if it'll make you feel better."

I looked at him. I wanted to turn away from those cold eyes, but I found I couldn't. He had me captured in his stare. And that was what I was to him – a trapped animal he had managed to ensnare. I didn't want to be that. No, I corrected myself, I didn't mind being his pet. I even enjoyed the thought of it at times. But it was something else that was really bothering me.

"I'm just a girl." I finally let out. He raised an eyebrow, as if he hadn't already been expecting me to say that. "I'm not some crime-fighting superhero. I don't run around, beating up the bad guys. I'm a historian, that's all. A boring old historian, who prefers analysing two thousand year old pieces of rock to the excitement of the chase. I don't belong in your world. It scares me, Sherlock. And last night made me realise that you need it. You need danger. But I can't be in danger all the time. I like being boring. I like being safe."

I stepped away from the door, having said my piece.

"Anything new you didn't get?" I asked lightly.

He didn't look at me as he opened the door and stepped through, his answer cutting through the silence.

"No."

The door slammed shut behind him

* * *

_Wow, dramatic. And short. Mainly short._

_Did anyone spot the Hitchhiker's Guide reference? I love that line. Especially the line after it. _

_Review please?_


	10. Incarceration

**Ten**  
_**Incarceration **_

I rang the doorbell for the third time.

This was ridiculous.

If someone didn't want my expertise on an object they'd bought at auction, then they shouldn't damn call me out to the middle of nowhere at this time of night! But oh, no, apparently it was _urgent_!

"_Hello_!" I called out, stepping back from the green front door and peering up at the heights of the marvellous Georgian house. I drew my coat closer, shivering in the chilly wind. I checked my watch. I was only ten minutes later than I had said I would be, and that was only because I had had difficulty getting a cab from the nearest station in this god forsaken surburb. That was not enough time for the wealthy businessman who had called me to give up and leave. I mean, this was his home. He shouldn't have left at all.

I rang the doorbell for what I decided was the last time. If no one answered I was going to turn right around and go straight back home to bed.

I waited five minutes and no one showed up apologising and explaining that they'd been in the bath or something.

I huffed and started stomping my way away from the house. When I reached the end of the drive I peered down both directions of the road. There was only one small streetlamp. I groaned. I didn't particularly like the idea of walking the two and a half miles back to the station in this level of darkness.

Thinking I would call the cab agency I had used to get here, I dug into my bag and retrieved my cell phone and their card. I turned on my phone. The screen lit up. Then it went dead.

Oh, Christ, I had forgotten to charge it.

This was so my lucky day.

There should be a phone in the house, shouldn't there? But they weren't answering. That was why I was in this mess in the first place.

I suppose technically it wasn't breaking and entering. I hadn't broken anything, anyway. I had just used the spare key under the mat. So it was just entering. And there wasn't a law against entering.

"_Hello_?" I yelled after stepping into the dark hallway. "Sorry I used the key, but no one was answering!"

I didn't get any response.

I ran my fingers down the wall nearest me, their tips finally catching a switch. I flicked it, hoping that if anyone was still here, then maybe the light would catch their attention. And if not, then at least I could see the phone.

At least that was the plan. But try as many times as I would, the large candelabra style bulbs hanging from the ceiling would not light up. That was odd. Maybe their fuse was blown.

I looked around the hallway, my eyes wide to let in as much light as possible. From the fact that not a trace of dirt touched any of the surfaces I could tell that someone obviously still lived here. Someone with OCD, most likely.

I spotted the console table to the side of the room and the phone sitting on top of it. As I reached for it, I felt my arm brush against something sharp and let out a yelp of pain. There was a clattering as whatever it was knocked onto the stone floor. I reached and picked it up.

An ornate paperknife.

But there was something strange about it; it was wet.

I jumped as I heard cars screeching to a halt outside. Footsteps clanked there way forward and a bright light blinded my eyes.

"Put down the weapon!"

* * *

I blinked, trying to make out anything in the dazzling white light.

Something was wrong here. Seriously wrong.

"I repeat, put down the weapon!" I heard the deep forceful voice commanding me. I didn't get it. Weapon? What were they talking about? I didn't have a w-

It clicked in my mind and I dropped the paperknife with a clang to the floor, using my other hand to shield my eyes.

The footsteps came closer, and suddenly I felt myself being shoved violently against the wall beside the table, my hands being yanked behind my back and pinned there.

"What's goi-"

"That's enough from you, missy." The man who had me trapped said. The light dimmed enough for my eyes to work properly, but it didn't help much since my face was pressed against the wall, only giving me a view of the rather nice yellow wallpaper. Something metal was placed around my wrists with a click.

"You guys check the upstairs! Johnson, Ryans, Lawrence, you check down here!"

I wriggled so that my head was turned against the wall. I was sure my nose was bleeding after that impact. I blinked and saw who my captures were. The police. A whole horde of them. I could make out at least three police cars through the open door, and there was probably more out of view.

Why the hell was there police here? And why the hell had they got me in handcuffs? _And why the hell was no one telling me what was going on?_

"Sir!" I heard one of the officers cry from upstairs. "You may want to look at this!"

The hands pressing against my back were briefly removed as different ones took their place. I saw out of the corner of my eye a man with greying hair and a dull suit hurry up the stairs and out of sight.

"Look, I know it was bad just coming in like that," I started rambling, "but I honestly just wanted to use the phone to call a taxi. I didn't know the place was alarmed or anything so-"

"Shut up." The new man behind me ordered, twisting my arms a little too far for comfort. I squirmed. Now I liked a little light bondage as much as the next girl, but this was taking it way too far.

A thought struck me. Why would a simple alarm bring all these police officers here? And how could they possibly have arrived so quickly?

But if they weren't here because of my breaking in-

The man in the suit appeared back down the stairs. He reached down and picked up the letter opener I had dropped. I gasped when I saw that it wasn't just wet. What I had taken for water wasn't nearly so pleasant. It was blood.

"Name?" he asked me rudely.

"Melanie Hunt." I answered, trying to loosen the uncomfortably tight grip on my arm behind me.

The suited man brushed the officer away from me and started navigating me out of the house.

"Then, Melanie Hunt, I'm arresting you on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence."

Sorry?

Did he just say _murder_?

* * *

"I know my rights! I want my phone call!" I shouted at the officer who was leading me up the steps towards the police station.

"You've been watching too many movies," he answered, "You don't get that."

"No." the man in the suit, who I now realised must be the DI, followed me up the stairs. The officer opened the door and guided me through. "But we can let someone know you're here and why."

"Would you mind telling _me_ why I'm here?" I shot back.

The DI ignored my question. "Who would you like us to contact?"

"Lu-" I stopped myself.

My brother would be here in a shot if they called him. He would worry, argue and possibly fight to get me released. But what good would that do me? Especially when there was someone else I knew who would see instantly that I hadn't done anything. Someone who already had influence with the police. But Sherlock would never come if they called him. He probably wouldn't even answer the phone. Then what could I do?

"John!" I announced as lightning struck my brain. "John Watson! I, err, don't know his number, but he lives at 221b Baker Street!"

* * *

The door to the cell clattered open and a prim female police officer stood waiting. I stood up from the cot.

"Come on," she said, nodding her head to the side, "your legal advisor's here to talk to you."

I slowly stepped out of the cell and she prodded me hard in the back with her truncheon to get me moving down the corridor. At least I didn't have those damn handcuffs on anymore.

"Legal advisor?" I asked confused.

"Yep."

"Who-"

But before I could ask she stopped me in front of a solid blue door, the words 'Interview room A' emblazoned across the neat label. She opened the door and nudged me inside before entering and closing the door behind us.

I looked around the room. It was exactly like the ones you saw on those police dramas – a plain box of a room, empty except for a large table in the centre, a recorder set to one side and chairs in front and behind it.

It was who was in these chairs that caused a small wave of relief to wash over me.

"Sherlock!" I restrained myself from jumping across the table to give him a hug. He nodded at the chair nearest me and I sat in it, slumping my arms onto the table.

"How are you holding up, Melanie?" John asked caringly.

"You mean apart from being arrested for a murder I didn't commit?" I said with a desperately sad laugh. John tried to smile reassuringly at me, but I could see the pity in his eyes.

"Of course you didn't commit it." Sherlock spoke up matter-of-factly. "You can't even look at a severed foot without vomiting."

"That was disgusting!" I told him. "Why did you have to put it in the airing cupboard?"

"It was the easiest way of-"

"Can we please get back to the matter at hand?" John interrupted. I sighed. I guessed there were slightly more pressing matters than where Sherlock kept his latest experiments. Even his foulest experiments.

"What are they actually accusing me of and can you get me out of here?" I asked.

Sherlock looked at me, that dangerous glint of excitement in his eyes. "Samuel Peterson was murdered late last night in his bedroom. He was stabbed seven times by a thin smooth weapon, apparently the same one that you were found holding."

"I didn't-"

"I know." Sherlock said as he turned away from me and started inspecting the police woman by the door, probably analysing every last aspect of her life. "And as for your second question – this is too big for this station to handle. They'll have to bring in Scotland Yard and I've already called to ensure that Lestrade is given the case. He should trust me on this matter."

"But until then-"

"You'll just have to wait, yes."

I groaned and slouched forwards, my head resting in my hands. This was way too much for a girl like me.

John patted me reassuringly on the arm. I looked up at him and tried to smile in return. He looked worried.

"What happened, Melanie?"

* * *

_No one got the reference last time. It was excitement, and adventure, and really wild things!... (Marvin) Sounds awful._

_I love Marvin. Never underestimate a pessimist._

_Anyways, review maybe? If you want? Which you do btw._


	11. Incentive

**Eleven**  
_**Incentive**_

"Who was it that called you?" Sherlock asked as soon as I had finished telling them how I had ended up in a police station under suspicion of murder. _Murder_, for Christ's sake. He had his elbows on the table between us, his hands raised together under his chin in a prayer position. That look was upon his face – the steely one he got when concentrating. Usually that look made me want to swoon dramatically, but now I was just thankful for it. It meant I'd be out of here soon. Hopefully.

"He said his name was James Morrison." I answered. I caught sight of John's expression. "Not the singer; I asked."

"What did he sound like? This is important, Melanie. Tell me every detail you can remember."

"I don't know, he sounded like a normal upper class man." I told Sherlock who then glared at me. I took that to mean my answer wasn't good enough. "Err, he spoke with that annoying Australian-Californian thing of making every sentence sound like a question."

"High rising terminal." Sherlock kindly informed me. Because I was really interested in its proper name.

"Yeah, and he obviously didn't know much about Hinduism because he mispronounced puja. And-"

"How did he mispronounce it?"

I frowned and tried to remember what the man had actually said, the fact that he made a mistake more important to me than the mistake itself. "Uh, he said poo-ya, kind of how lots of European countries pronounce J as Y. I just assumed he thought that was the case in Hindi as well."

Sherlock had narrowed his eyes as he stared at the table. It took him a second to respond. "Yes. That is a possibility."

John and I looked at him, trying to figure out what was going on inside that complex head of his. Suddenly he looked up with an intake of breath, his eyes wide.

"Of course." His attention snapped onto me. "Melanie, were you later than you had told the man you assumed to be Mr. Morrison?"

"Uh, yeah."

"How late?"

"Only ten minutes or so."

Sherlock laughed – actually laughed – and got to his feet. The police officer by the door took a step forwards but stopped when she saw Sherlock wasn't going to attack anyone to try to bust me out. He began pacing the width of the room.

"Sherlock…" John said confused.

"Don't you see, John?" Sherlock cried, sounding positively ecstatic. John obviously didn't. Neither did I, as a matter of fact. We both shook our heads. Sherlock stopped pacing and pointed at me. "He knew her!"

"Who knew me?"

Sherlock started up his journey across the room again. "The person who set you up."

"It was a set up?"

"Oh, John, of course it was a set up." Sherlock said with a patronizing glance. I blinked. Who in their right mind would want to set me up? _Me_? Boring Melanie Hunt?

"Why do you think that?"

"Because," Sherlock sounded rather tired with this now. It was probably so blatantly obvious to him that it seemed foolish having to explain. "Why would someone call an unknown antiquities expert for advice in the middle of the night and then not answer the door when they turn up?"

"Because they were busy being stabbed, perhaps."

Sherlock swiftly slunk back into his chair, a fixed look on his face. "Think about it, Melanie. Someone asks you to go to an isolated house that most definitely does not belong to them where, unbeknownst to you, a murder has recently taken place. The police then receive an anonymous tip off about said murder and arrive shortly after. But they weren't informed at the time you were supposed to arrive, they were informed ten minutes later, meaning the culprit must know that you struggle with punctuality and then estimated – accurately – a time for your arrival. They most likely were hoping for you to get caught near the scene of the crime. You being found inside the building, holding the murder weapon, was just an added bonus."

My face gradually dropped as I let it sink in. "Oh. My. God."

Try as I may to fault it, Sherlock's reasoning was clearly the most logical explanation of the night's events. But it was so… uncharacteristic. My life did not involve things like this. I didn't have enemies, certainly no one who would want me locked up. That was Sherlock's life. My brain felt like it was slowly melting.

"But if Melanie knows them-"

"Not necessarily." He interrupted John's question. "I said that they know her, it doesn't automatically follow that she knows them."

I jumped. "You mean I have a _stalker_?"

"The question still remains, however," he wasn't listening to me again, "of whether this man is indeed the murderer."

* * *

Sherlock had then run off to examine the body, something I was quite pleased I didn't have to deal with, and I was escorted back to my cell.

I had waited there, in agonising confusion, trying to sort through all of what Sherlock had said to me, for what must have been at least five hours. I wasn't happy to realise I had picked up Sherlock's annoying habit of pacing the length of a room. But to be honest, there wasn't much else for me to do apart from lie on the cot and daydream. And seeing as any daydreams I could have at the moment were about stab wounds and bloody knives, pacing was definitely the preferable option.

I was led out of my cell, past the interview rooms, and towards the front of the police station. I smiled in relief when I saw not only Sherlock waiting for me, but also a frustrated looking Lestrade.

I was brought to a stop in front of them.

Lestrade didn't give any formal greeting and I flinched as he grabbed my wrist and raised it onto the desk next to him. He wrapped a thick black watch-strap around it, the dial being replaced by a chunky plain box.

"This is a tracing device. Don't go outside the borders of London. And it'll go off if you try to remove it, so don't bother." He told me gruffly, fastening the ends of the straps together with a click. I tried to smile at him, but he just looked exhausted. I supposed it was still rather early in the morning. He turned to Sherlock and gave him a warning look. "I'm trusting you on this, so you better give me results."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Why are you even worrying?"

Lestrade sighed and turned away. "I always worry when something concerns you."

I let out a small laugh. Lestrade turned back to me and held out a clear plastic bag containing my handbag, jewellery and watch. I doubted I would be wearing that with this thing on my wrist.

"Thank you so much." I said honestly, not at all referring to the bag. "Really."

He rolled his eyes. "It's only because I know you've got something going on with Sherlock that I'm letting you go. He would have noticed if you were plotting a murder."

I chuckled, not even bothering to correct him on the whole Sherlock-relationship thing. I was just grateful that I was able to get out of here.

"Come on, Melanie." Sherlock said before sweeping his way out of the door to the station. I thanked Lestrade again before running after him.

"Lestrade has a lot of faith in you." I said after catching up with him.

Sherlock didn't look at me but started trying to hail down a cab. "Not enough."

A black taxi rolled to a stop beside him and he quickly opened the door and jumped in. I slid in next to him and shut the door behind me.

"Ryland Road." He told the driver. My head shot round to face him.

"What? Why are we going to my apartment?"

He raised his eyebrows. "I assumed you would like to go home and get some rest."

It was true that I was tired, but even if I wanted to I doubt I could have slept. Besides, there was something else I wanted to do. "No. I want to go with you."

He frowned at me. "I thought you didn't like my dangerous lifestyle."

"Well, yes, but somehow it seems like I don't really have a choice anymore. You've infected me or something. And I'm not going to just sit around and let other people deal with things that decide whether I end up serving a life sentence in jail or not. I don't _like_ danger, Sherlock, but here it is. Someone tried to set me up and I want to know who."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, before turning away, but I swear I caught a glimpse of a smile on his face. He leant towards the driver.

"Actually, we've changed our minds. Take us to Richmond Green."

My mouth dropped open.

But wasn't that… the crime scene?

"There won't be dead bodies, will there?"

* * *

_No one's reviewing anymore. Do you guys like the new adventure-type of style or not? I'd quite like to know, tbh. Otheriwse I'm just going to continue rambling on like some madwoman._


	12. Intrigue

**Twelve**  
_**Intrigue **_

I couldn't believe I was back here again, not after what had happened here less than eight hours ago.

It was surreal. I was not the type of girl to go sniffing around murder scenes. Usually, I'd probably be running off in the other direction. Well, I thought so, anyway – I'd never actually had to deal with one before.

Yet here I was, following Sherlock up a fancy marble staircase in a house where I had been arrested far too recently for comfort.

"He was killed in the bedroom." He told me as he stepped off of the stairs and trotted along the hallway. I hurried after. I didn't like being in this house and found myself staying closer to Sherlock's side than I would have normally done. He stopped outside the last door along the corridor and looked at me. "You sure you want to do this? It's bound to be pretty messy."

I bit my lip. This was not going to be pleasant. But it was either suck it up and go with Sherlock or stand out here on my own. I supposed I could have gone back outside and waited with the police officers standing guard, but was that really any better than being alone? Christ, I didn't want to be alone right now.

I gulped but nodded nonetheless, a small squeal coming out involuntarily.

Sherlock placed a gloved hand on the doorknob, turned it, and opened the door. He sauntered into the room as if it was nothing, which I suppose it was for him. I hesitated for a second before finally working up the courage to follow.

It didn't seem so bad when I first stepped into the room, just a neat, expensively decorated boudoir. And then I saw the bed.

"There's an en suite through there, if you're going to vomit." Sherlock said pointing at a door in the corner of the room, as he continued to examine the blood stains on the crisp white sheets. I covered my mouth, but didn't feel any food rising. There was just so much of it – the blood. People don't bleed that much, do they?

"I'm fine." I was saying it more to convince myself than anything else.

I turned away and started trying to distract myself with the ornate details on the nearby dressing table. I heard Sherlock rummaging around the room behind me.

"Married. Less than ten years, by the state of the wedding ring, unhappily so, from the fact that it's on the nightstand." He was deducing out loud. I heard what sounded like a door opening. "His wife's away – has been for at least three weeks – but she's left all her winter clothes here, so a holiday, not a divorce."

I was pretty certain he was making his way around the room now.

"A fair amount of expensive business wear, but not worn frequently, so a partner in the firm, not a full-time employee."

I saw his reflection in the dressing mirror as he perused the small bookshelf across the room.

"Not an avid reader, probably never went to university."

He picked up one of the books and flipped it open.

"Impotent."

I blinked and twirled around. "What?"

Sherlock strolled across the floor towards me. "At least with his wife."

He stopped beside me and scanned the objects on the dressing table. I saw a smile flicker across his lips. "And not surprisingly so with a hobby like that."

"A hobby like what?"

Sherlock turned his attention to me. "Look at the items on the table, Melanie. What do you see?"

I frowned and peered down at the same table I had been examining for five minutes. It didn't seem any stranger than the last time I looked. Just the usual stuff you found on a vanity chest. "His wife likes her beauty products? There's a lot of hair spray and makeup. And jewellery. Me thinks we've found a gold digger."

"Look closer."

I did. I leant down and stared at the things. "Hang on, they're plastic – the cheap costume stuff. No gold digger would own that."

"And what did I tell you earlier?"

It felt like Sherlock was trying to teach me how to deduce like him. And although I was positive I would never be able to think like he did, it was nice to feel included in his mind. I stood back upright and thought.

"His wife's away?" I asked, an idea coming to me. These products had been touched recently. Sherlock smiled, seeing me catch on. "So a mistress?"

"Do you think a mistress would leave her knock-off jewellery lying in her lover's bedroom when she wasn't there?"

"So, err," My face suddenly dropped as I caught where this conversation was heading. My eyes widened. "You mean this was _his_? He's a cross-dresser?"

Sherlock began opening the drawers and picking through their contents. "Seems the most logical explanation."

I shook my head, a bewildered smile on my face. It seemed like even the most respected of citizens had their secrets. I wondered whether his wife knew she was being used as a beard. She probably did if what Sherlock said about his impotency was true. I turned around and gazed out of the window at the police tape and car below. Life with Sherlock was certainly eye-opening. You couldn't walk down the street anymore without thinking about who was an adulterer, who was a closet gay, who was a thief, who was lying to the people they loved. It was all so-

I frowned.

Something wasn't right with this view.

"Sherlock." I heard his continued exploration of the room but no response. "Sherlock!"

"What?" he asked too late. He must have been surprised when I grabbed his hand and started pulling him from the room, but I didn't look up to check. I dragged him along the corridor and down the staircase, jumping down the last two steps.

"Melanie, what are you do-"

"Uh, hi," I said as I ran to a halt in front of the young officer standing by the door. He looked at us both with an expression of surprise and confusion, like he hadn't expected anyone to actually talk to him. "Look, can you go up to the room where the murder happened and stand by the window nearest the end, please? It's really, really important."

"Err…" he mumbled, turning to Sherlock for any clue as to what was going on. Sherlock nodded at him. The officer scratched his forehead. "Alright, I guess."

"Can you hurry? Thanks!" I told him quickly, already tugging on Sherlock's sleeve to get him moving again. This time I didn't need to drag him. He jogged after me as I ran out of the building and down the driveway.

I stopped when we reached the end and turned back to the house.

"I can't believe I didn't spot it! I stayed in a house like this in France as a kid!"

Sherlock, having had enough of this, grabbed my shoulders and forced me to look straight into his eyes. "Didn't spot what?"

I shrugged out of his grip, spun around, and pointed at the building.

"_Look_! That bedroom was at the end of the corridor, right? There shouldn't be another room after it!" Sherlock tried to follow my line of sight. "Then why is that officer standing at the _third_ window from the end?"

* * *

I yelled and grabbed onto Sherlock's arm.

He effortlessly hoisted me up. I heaved my foot out of the hole in the floor and tried to regain my balance.

God, I hated attics. Especially dusty, crooked ones with weak flooring that hadn't been used in decades.

Sherlock walked calmly over to the other side of the cramped space, where another door lay half-hidden behind a pile of boxes. I stepped carefully, now testing the floor's strength with each foot before having it bare my weight. By the time I got over to Sherlock, he had already moved most of the boxes.

"Someone's been here recently." He pointed out. He didn't really need to; the large clearings in the dust did so for him.

He finished moving the last box and took the door handle in his grasp. It clicked and the door swung open.

I gazed through at the dark stairwell beyond. "It didn't squeak."

Sherlock took a step forwards. "Very observant. No, someone's been oiling the hinges."

He started down the steps, using his phone as a make-shift torch. I made sure I stayed less than two steps behind him. I didn't have a working phone to give me light. I tried to convince myself that was the only reason, but to be honest there was something else on my mind. I was a giant wimp at heart who needed someone to hold her hand.

"How did you know the entrance to the hidden room was in the attic?" I asked, trying not to notice the thick layer of dust scattering my new (and expensive) jacket.

"It was clear that someone goes up there often. The door handle was too well polished compared to some of the spare rooms. And judging from the level of dirt on the stairs, I doubted that the space was used itself. Therefore it must be a corridor." He explained. I sighed. Even after spending so much time with him, I still had no idea how his brain worked the way it did. And no matter how hard I tried to shake the thoughts from my mind, I couldn't deny that I was still curious.

There was another door at the base of the stairs. Sherlock stopped in front of it. He just stared at it for a moment. I suppose he was doing his thing and working out when it was last used, by whom, and what mood they were in.

I could barely see the door itself in the little light I had.

With one fluid movement Sherlock twisted the doorknob and pushed open the door.

I hustled after him. I heard the door shut and turned to see Sherlock running his hand along the wall in search of a light switch.

He found it and I squinted at the sudden onslaught of light.

When my eyes had adjusted I looked around.

My eyes widened.

"This is… err… Well, it's… interesting."

* * *

_Little cliffy for you there. Sorry about that._

_Thanks for all those lovely reviews! Can you do it again? Look, it's just the button down there._


	13. Infatuation

**Thirteen**  
_**Infatuation**_

I took a step further into the room.

It was hardly what I was expecting from a hidden room you had to access from the attic of an old house. I had been imagining all sort of horrible scenes in my mind – secret love dungeons, walls covered in photographs from someone's stalking days, surgical equipment and freezers full of body parts – the usual horror story settings. But this was… Well, it was positively normal.

The pastel yellow walls had obviously been chosen with love, complementing the spotless wooden flooring.

It was even quite nice, actually.

For a nursery.

Little cartoons of exotic animals lined the picture rail. Soft teddy bears cluttered the one armchair in the corner. A changing mat lay on top of the chest of drawers, and a large cot sat in the centre of the floor, a pretty little mobile twirling above it.

I turned back to Sherlock who was still standing by the light switch, a focused look on his face.

"Why is there a nursery here? You wouldn't exactly want to hide a baby, would you?"

Sherlock didn't say anything. I frowned and looked away, walking up to the cot. It was all decked out, lots of pastel blankets and a few more cuddly toys. But no baby.

Sherlock decided on something in his head and made his way to the armchair. I watched as he silently picked up one of the toys, turned it over in his hands, and then proceeded to rip its cute little head right off.

"Sherlock!" I exclaimed, running over to him and seizing the toy from his grasp. "No hurting the innocent teddies!"

He snatched the fluffy remains from my hands and started pulling out its stuffing. I watched in utter disbelief. After what seemed like an hour of toy mutilation he simply dropped the remnants back onto the chair and looked around the room.

I sighed.

Somebody obviously had childhood issues to resolve.

I wandered over to the chest of drawers and pulled open the top shelf. Full of neatly folded baby clothes. I pulled out one of the bodysuits and held it up. I had to admit, even though I wasn't overly-fond of the whole children thing, it was kind of cute.

I folded it back up and was about to place it back where it came from, when I noticed something odd underneath the next stack of clothes. I slid the brown leather travel journal out and flipped it open. Letters? Or a diary, maybe?

"Sherlock."

"What?" he asked. I turned around. He was inspecting the cartoon border on the walls, as if it contained some kind of secret message in the elephants.

"I found this." I told him, holding the journal up. He spotted it before returning to his cross-examination of the lions.

"Read it out."

I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out my reading glasses, perching them on my nose and opening the book up again. "'Dear Georgie' – who do you think Geo-"

"Just read it."

I grumbled something rather inappropriate under my breath, but turned back to the swirling writing in front of me. "'I'm so sorry, my love. Really I am. I have tried so hard this week. I have fought and nagged. All for you, my love. But He just won't listen. He's so inconsiderate to my needs. He just lies there, complaining about business and His life.

"But it doesn't really matter, does it? For all we need is each other. And we shall be together. I shall ensure it.

"You're so beautiful. Those sparkling blue eyes that light up every time you see me. If only He used those eyes, then it would be fine.

"I shall see you soon, my love.'"I reached the bottom of the page entry and looked up at Sherlock again. "That's weird."

He swiftly strolled over to me and grabbed the book from out of my hands. This child had serious snatching problems. He flipped some of the pages in the book, finally settling on one in particular.

His face lit up.

And he was off again.

I picked up the book from where he had dropped it and hurried after him, up the crooked old stairway and into the attic, desperately not wanting to be left behind.

It was only when we were half way down the drive outside the large house that I managed to get Sherlock to tell me anything.

"Why don't you tell me who _you_ think wrote the diary?" he shot back at me after I had asked him the same question for the fourth time.

"Well, men don't speak like that, and they were talking about a man using capital letters as if they were almost God-like, so a woman, but a woman who's been put down by this man." I hypothesised as we turned out of the drive way and started up the pavement of the road. "Samuel Peterson's wife, maybe? She's bound to be frustrated living with a cross-dressing husband that won't touch her."

"Well done, Melanie. And what would a woman like Mrs. Peterson want?" he asked. I found I had to jog slightly in my heels to keep up with his long strides. I hoped he wasn't going to make us walk all the way back to the station like this. "What would a woman who had no qualifications and no skills, who had to stay at home all day, whose husband was always away on so-called business trips, who had been landed in a nice big house all on her own – what would she want most of all?"

"Company." I answered straight away.

"Love, Melanie. Love!"

"Oh, right." In the excitement I had momentarily forgotten that normal people weren't like me and actually loved others and wanted to be loved in return. It all sounded rather annoying. "So, she wanted a friend, or a lover?"

"Think!"

I then remembered the hidden room. A chill went down my spine. "She wanted a _baby_? The nursery… Georgie… they're… Oh, my God, that's wrong."

"Oh, good, it was strange." Sherlock sounded he hadn't been sure himself.

"Obsessing over a fictional baby? Making a nursery for said baby? Writing to them as if they were real? Yeah, Sherlock, it's strange."

"Well, women can be so dramatic at times I thou-"

"So," I interrupted loudly, "what was it you read in the diary that had you running out of there?"

He tapped the book in my hands. "Last entry."

I tried to open the book, find the last page with writing, read it, and keep up with Sherlock at the same time, but sadly found it impossible. "Sherlock, can we stop for a moment, _please_?"

He sighed but ground to a halt nonetheless. I stopped far less elegantly. The balls of my feet were starting to ache. I flicked open the book to the right page and scanned it. The last sentence jumped out at me as if it had been highlighted and underlined multiple times in bright red.

_Drastic measures need to be taken._

My face went blank. "She… she killed her husband? Because he wouldn't give her a baby?"

In the time it had taken for me to read the passage, Sherlock had taken out his phone and was busy typing away on the screen. "Oh, don't be ridiculous. The multiple stab wounds suggest a crime of passion, not a meticulously planned revenge for an unborn child. Besides, Mrs. Peterson is currently enjoying a holiday in Crete."

I by-passed asking him how he knew she was in Crete and went for the more important of my questions. "Then where, Sherlock, have you been leading me?"

Without giving me an answer, he pressed some more buttons on his phone before placing it to his ear. "I need a taxi as soon as possible at the eastern end of Old Palace Lane… Yes… Fine."

He hung up and started walking along the road again. I was seriously getting tired of chasing after him.

"Sherlock, will you answer me, now?"

He paused, turned to me, and a smile crept onto his face.

"We're going to visit dear Mr. Samuel Peterson's lover."

Oh, dear.

* * *

Sherlock knocked on the door to the office and waited.

"Yes?" came the reply from inside. Sherlock opened the door and I followed him in, shutting the door behind us. "Well, what can I do for _you_?"

The man behind the crowded desk was peering at Sherlock with a glint in his eyes that I did not like. He was middle-aged, but looked in good shape for his years. His hair was a rich chestnut colour and his skin showed little sign of aging. Hair dye? Definitely. Botox? Most likely.

"Mr. Evans?"

The man shrugged out his hands in an openly flamboyant gesture. "That's me."

"I'm Sherlock Holmes. This is Melanie Hunt. We're from the police."

My head snapped around and I frowned. The police? Really, Sherlock?

"The police?" Mr Evans exclaimed lightly. "Ooh, have I been _naughty_?"

I scratched my forehead. I had expected the owner of a drag bar to be gay, certainly, but that was never a guarantee of campness. And Mr. Evans seemed like the campest man I had ever had the pleasure of meeting, and one of my friend's brothers was a fashion designer, for Christ's sake. Talk about stereotypes.

Sherlock chuckled. Oh, God, he was using his sociopathic skills of manipulation again. I would never get used to nice Sherlock.

"No, not to my knowledge." He said with a cheeky grin. Great, now he was gay as well. "We're simply looking for a Daniel Waters. I believe he works here."

Mr. Evans' eyes widened in mock surprise. "Danielle? What's she been up to this time?"

"Nothing yet," I said, before remembering I was supposed to be a policewoman and adding, "Sir."

Mr Evans smiled at me, but somehow I sensed his happiness wasn't quite as genuine as when he was speaking to Sherlock. I hated the fact that a little piece of me reared up at this.

"Well, Miss Hunt-"

"Sergeant." I put in. Mr Evans' eyebrow twitched the tiniest amount, which made me feel surprisingly happy.

"Well, Sergeant Hunt," Mr Evans corrected, "I'm afraid Danielle doesn't get in for work until this evening, but I'd be happy to give her a message if you wanted me to."

"Oh, no. We were really hoping to speak to her as soon as possible." Sherlock said. I held in my gasp. Was he… Was he pouting? That was so… wrong. And cute. No! It was just wrong, Melanie. Nothing cute about childish Sherlock. Nothing at all. "I don't suppose you could give us her address, could you?"

"I'm really not supposed to."

"_Please_." Sherlock pleaded innocently.

I could have fainted.

"Oh, alright." Mr Evans gave in. He switched his attention to the computer in front of him and began typing away.

There was a small buzzing noise coming from Sherlock's pocket. He dug out his phone and checked the message.

His persona changed instantly back to his normal self.

"That won't be necessary, Mr. Evans." He said darkly. "I'm afraid Daniel Waters has just been found on a nearby railway line with his head smashed in."

* * *

_Btw I know I've got all the dates wrong in this, but it wouldn't fit otherwise, so I've added another week in between the blind banker and the great game, yeah? Good._

_Thanks again for reviews! Please, sir, can I have some more?_


	14. Insults

**Fourteen**  
_**Insults**_

"I did a search as soon as you texted me the name." Lestrade told us as we trotted along beside him up to the bridge, which I could see even from here was cut off with neon yellow police tape. "He jumped early this morning. You say he knew our victim?"

"Oh, yes." Sherlock answered. "Mr. Waters knew our victim very well."

We rounded up onto the bridge, ducking under the police tape.

"How?"

I stepped in for Sherlock who was now squatting and inspecting a fine piece of dog mess on the ground. "Biblically."

Lestrade frowned. "But the victim was married, wasn't he? Did his wife know his sexuality?"

Sherlock stood up again. "Yes, Mrs. Peterson was well aware of her husband's unusual hobby."

"Hobby? How is-"

"Is this where he jumped from?" Sherlock interrupted, standing by the edge of the bridge and looking down onto the railway line below. I didn't particularly feel the urge to follow his lead, knowing that any accident involving a man and a train would never be exactly pretty. "You've already moved the body, I see."

Lestrade looked a little flustered at this. "Well, yes, it's a busy railway line and at the time the guys had no idea it could be connected to a murder enquiry. They just thought it was a straight-forward jumper."

"Could he have been pushed?" I asked, trying to think along the same lines as an actual detective would.

"The driver didn't see anyone else. Poor sod. He says that one minute the guy was watching the train and the next he was on his windshield."

"So, what?" I continued, trying to think things through before voicing them, "He hears of his lovers death in the news and kills himself? That's a bit melodramatic, don't you think?"

Lestrade gave me an odd look. I didn't like it. It was the look I used to get as a kid from the other children, before I had learnt how to behave like a normal, emotional human being. But, hey, not everyone gets _that_ upset when their grandfather dies! And crying was one thing – jumping in front of a train was an entirely different story.

I was saved any further embarrassment by Sherlock speaking up. "Only Mr. Peterson's death has not yet been reported by any news media."

I watched as he tapped the brick wall in front of him and then placed the side of his head to it, as if listening to the reverberations. I absently wondered what he was testing for. My mind, however, was mainly occupied by this new information he had given. If Daniel Waters didn't know his lover was dead, then why did he kill himself? If indeed he did kill himself. I was guessing that the driver's memory of the events leading up to the suicide weren't exactly in tip top condition.

"Sherlock!" I yelled in shock, tugging on the back of his coat to prevent him from tipping over the edge of the bridge as he climbed on top of the wall. He stumbled backwards and landed on safe ground again. He glared at me. I held my ground. "What are you doing? That's dangerous!"

"Oh, please. The drop wouldn't even be enough to break my ank-."

The end of his sentence was cut off by a roaring sound. A train rushed below us under the bridge, the loose strands of my hair being whipped up in the wind it created as it powered on, clattering over the spot where Sherlock would have landed had he fallen.

I kept my face blank. "I think that may have been sufficient to break your ankle."

Sherlock didn't say anything, but instead chose to scoff and start walking away, back in the direction we had come. I sighed but ran along after him.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade called as soon as I had caught up with him. Sherlock turned. "Can I have a word?"

Sherlock paused for a second, smiled and then looked down at me. "Excuse me, Melanie."

"What? I- Oh, why bother?" I grumbled, watching Sherlock dash back to Lestrade. They talked for no longer than two minutes. I didn't fail in spotting Lestrade's frequent glances towards me. I could guess what they were talking about.

After Sherlock had returned, we both ducked under the police tape again and began making our way I assumed to somewhere we could get a cab from. Sherlock did like his taxis.

"Lestrade tell you off like a naughty child for taking the chief suspect in a murder investigation around the crime scenes?" I asked.

I caught sight of Sherlock's small smirk. "Of course."

I chuckled.

"Oh, and by the way," I said lightly. Sherlock peered down at me and raised his eyebrows, silently asking me to continue. I grinned in return. "You can thank me later for saving your life."

Sherlock grunted.

"You did no such thing."

* * *

I stepped out of the taxi behind Sherlock and eyed the building in front of us extremely warily.

This could not be good.

This _definitely_ could not be good.

Sherlock started on up the steps and through the rather beautiful archway, the tall ornate white stone towering above us, and the rather unflattering statue of King Henry VIII leering down at me. I gulped and jogged up to Sherlock.

"Why are we at Barts?" I asked, mainly dreading the answer.

"To visit Mr. Waters."

I stopped dead, now in the courtyard of the old hospital. Sherlock paused several feet in front of me, turned, and raised an eyebrow expectantly.

"I am _not_ examining any corpses."

"Fine." He told me, carrying on towards one of the large buildings. "Then I suppose you'll never know who tried to get you imprisoned for murder."

Oh, crap. He just had to bring that up, didn't he?

* * *

"Just don't expect me to actually look at anything." I said to Sherlock as he strode on through one of the doors as if it wasn't marked boldly with the words 'No unauthorised entry'.

We stopped abruptly half way down a row of lockers, right in front of one that was already open. I managed to spot that there was someone behind the door, reaching into the locker, but couldn't actually see who they were until the locker was shut.

"Oh, Sherlock, hi."

I hated her.

"Hello." Sherlock greeted with a smile on his face. Without even realising it, I found myself hoping that smile was fake. This woman – if you could even call her that, she looked about twelve – only then seemed to notice me.

"Oh," she let out, not concealing the tiny drooping of the corners of her lips very well. She was trying to hide it, but I could see the disappointment in her eyes. "Hi. I'm Molly."

Damn her and her cute little nose.

"Melanie." I told her, a large smile on my face.

We stood there for at least a minute, both smiling at the other, not saying a word. I could tell we were both thinking exactly the same thing; who was this woman and how did she know Sherlock? But neither of us was going to back down and ask. That would be admitting defeat!

She was pretty.

Too pretty.

I wondered if Sherlock would know it was me if she quite accidently fell off a ten storey building.

Finally, Molly turned away. Haha, I won!

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," she said, "but I've been told not to let you in the mortuary anymore."

I looked at Sherlock. He was also smiling – we must have looked like some travelling smiling circus – but I could tell from his eyes that he was thinking about something. It took him a moment to come out with a response.

"I was just telling Melanie how ridiculous her shoes are. Don't you agree?"

My mouth dropped open.

_Why the hell were my shoes ridiculous?_

Molly blinked. "What? I…" she seemed nervous but I caught her small glimpse down at my beautiful (and definitely in no way ever ridiculous) deep green court shoes. "No… they're… well… err…"

But Sherlock wasn't finished. "Yes, she's already far too tall at five foot nine, and the added four and a half inches from her shoes make her appear as if she has gigantism. Women should be a more respectable height, don't you think?"

I could barely believe what I was hearing.

Molly looked as dumb-struck as I felt. She fidgeted with the pockets on her lab coat, obviously not knowing how to react.

"I… err…"

I was sorely tempted to lift her off of the ground and physically carry her up to the roof of a ten storey building. Who on earth was that short, anyway?

Molly sighed. "What do you need?"

This time I knew Sherlock's grin was real. "Daniel Water's body."

Molly shook her head in defeat and sighed once more. "Alright."

Sherlock was about to follow her up the corridor when I stopped him, prodding him hard in the chest with my index finger.

"Don't," I spat out quietly through gritted teeth, "insult the shoes."

* * *

_I hope I'm not making Melanie into a bimbo. I'm trying not to, but sometimes that part of me just slips out into the writing._

_Oo, baby, baby! Ba-baby, baby! Ah, review it. Review it real good!_


	15. Indecency

**Fifteen**  
_**Indecency**_

"You guys go ahead. I'll just stand here."

- facing the wall and determinedly not looking at whatever grotesque mess was in the bag Molly was currently wheeling into the centre of the room.

Who on earth would want to work somewhere like this? Who would want to spend their day examining dead people and thinking so morbidly? Of course, I already knew the answer to that. When did Sherlock ever _not_ do something related to corpses?

…That sounded wrong.

I heard the ominous sound of a zip being undone behind my back and tried my hardest not to imagine what the others must be now looking at.

"I'm afraid there's not much to look at; he didn't fare well under the impact."

Oh, thank you, Molly. I really needed to hear that.

My stomach churned threateningly.

There were a few footsteps and I guessed that Sherlock was strolling around the cadaver casually. This was all just another day in his crazy world.

"No scratches to his abdomen." He pointed out. I focused on how the paint on the walls was slightly bumpy. "And no bruising to his arms. So he did indeed jump."

It was odd, really, how the white walls could look so smooth from afar but be so rough when you were this close up.

"He saw Mr. Peterson recently – he used the shampoo in his bathroom. But not in the last twenty four hours."

I wondered if there was a better way of applying the paint so that it didn't bubble up.

"There's a fresh dog bite on his hand, but it's been healing for at least two days. Too shallow to be a proper bite, so a playful puppy, probably a Labrador cross. Not his. A close relative's, most likely his sister's."

If you used a paint brush instead of a roller you wouldn't get those marks, but you probably would get brush strokes.

"Melanie."

I supposed it was the lesser of two evils then.

"Melanie."

Even if you airbrushed the walls it wouldn't be perfect, and it would take forever.

"_Melanie_." Sherlock's tone became more forceful and I was pried out of my daze.

"What?" I asked, forgetting where I was for a moment and turning my head to look at him. I immediately swept back round, attempting to keep the bile from rising in my throat. I had only glimpsed the man's pale bluish feet, but I felt like that was quite enough.

"Can you remember the exact shades of lipstick on Mr. Peterson's dressing table?" Sherlock asked seriously.

"Uh…" This was getting too much for me. First he made me stand in the same room as a grotesque mangled body, and now he actually expected me to think at the same time! I thought back to the first dead man's bedroom, hoping that maybe the memory of the table would distract me from the horror that was this room. There had been a lot of makeup and several lipsticks. But even remembering the brand wouldn't help in remembering the shade inside. I hadn't even opened them! Well, there was one where it wasn't even necessary. "Only one of them."

"The exact colour?"

I nodded, but realised that Sherlock hadn't been facing me when I had turned around. "Yes. Rouge G de Guerlain in Gala. I only remember it because I've wanted it since it was first released, but could never afford it. It's bloody expensive."

"Ooo, is that the one with the amazing compact and mir-"

"Melanie," Sherlock cut off Molly's question. I gulped. I didn't like the tone he was using one bit. "I need you to do something that you're not going to enjoy."

I scoffed.

Because so far this day had been a ride at the funfair.

"What?"

I heard some movement and suddenly felt a weight on my shoulder. I looked down and saw one of Sherlock's elegant gloved hands.

"I need you to tell me whether the stain on Mr. Water's neck is that lipstick." He told me, his voice the tiniest of slithers softer than it was usually. I frowned. Then I realised what his request meant.

"No!" I shouted, my eyebrows shooting upwards. "Sherlock, I am not looking at _that_!"

I waved one of my arms vaguely behind me in the direction of the gurney. I felt rather than heard Sherlock step closer to me, the material of his coat barely brushing against my back.

"Melanie," he spoke slowly and quietly. I bit my lip in defiance. "This is crucial."

I let out a whine. This wasn't fair. This just wasn't fair! Why did he have to come along into my life and turn everything upside down? I was meant to be a simple museum curator, not a pathologist. I didn't get my kicks out of doing these sorts of things.

I craved normality.

I sobbed one loud sob and slumped my shoulders, my voice coming out as a defeated whisper. "Alright."

I let Sherlock guide me around by the shoulder, staring resolutely at the spotless floor as we walked over to the centre of the room. We stopped besides the metal gurney. I swallowed.

"Molly will clean it up if you vomit."

"What? No, I won't. Why would she vomit? She's not going to vomit, is she? Please do-"

I took in a large breathe of air, steadying my nerves. Then, heroically, unwaveringly, I looked up.

My next action surprised even me.

I had never been one of those girls. In fact, whenever I saw one of them I rolled my eyes and struggled to contain the urge to shout out something completely unromantic to ruin the moment. I didn't shriek and attach myself to my date during the most shocking moments of a scary movie. I didn't snuggle up beside them on a day when the biting cold wind made it a chore to walk down the street. I didn't even hold their hand when I was feeling a bit nervous.

That was just drippy rubbish.

And yet here I was, pressed against Sherlock, hands clutching onto the material covering his chest, face buried in the crook between his neck and shoulder, wanting his support.

I fought back the vomit that was threatening its way upwards.

"It's the same." I made out croakily, my voice muffled by Sherlock's coat.

"Are you sure?"

I barely noticed that Sherlock's arm had wrapped itself around my waist, securing me to him. I was too busy trying not to scream.

"Yes."

"I- I'll just- I'll-" Molly stammered out, sounding as if she was on the verge of tears herself. "I'll be back in a sec."

I heard her hurried footsteps and a door closing loudly.

"Then Mr. Waters did indeed see Mr. Peterson last night." Sherlock said to himself, ignoring Molly's sudden departure and standing completely still.

I breathed deeply, the familiar scent of Sherlock tickling my nose and cleansing some of my horror away. My short fingernails dug slightly further into his coat. He was steady and most definitely alive. And right about now that was all that was keeping my sanity intact – knowing that there was life outside this room, even if it was twisted and sociopathic.

My breathing halted.

I couldn't move as the realisation swept over me.

I loathed Sherlock Holmes.

He was arrogant and annoying. He felt happy at proving his superiority over others, at making them feel like idiots. He looked at people with a vague fascination layered over his distaste. He charged around, acting as if the entire world was created for his entertainment. He didn't care who got hurt if it meant he got his way. He used people – he used me – just so that he didn't get too bored. The only reason he did this detective stuff was to prove himself; it wasn't out of some desire for the greater good. He needed excitement and danger. He had no conscience. He had no guilt. He would shout like some petulant child if he wanted something and sulk when he didn't get it. He was manipulative and a sneak. He was… he was just _wrong_.

And yet despite this – and maybe even slightly because of it – there was something different here. Something I hadn't ever properly felt before.

_I liked him_.

"Stop it."

I blinked, my breathing starting again, albeit irregular and slow. I lifted my face out of his shoulder and looked at him.

"Stop what?" I asked very quietly.

Sherlock's gaze flickered to me briefly before returning to somewhere behind me. "Thinking that."

"Thinking what?" I didn't even notice that my stare was not focused on his, but instead a couple of inches south on a rather nice spot on his bottom lip. My eyelids were drifting lazily together.

"We're not having sex in a mortuary."

That certainly snapped them back open again. Perhaps it was some form of bizarre self-defence mechanism, but by having my brain roam around the subject of Sherlock and investigating my own dulled emotions, I had completely forgotten about where we were. And now I remembered, the panic was beginning to set in again. How could I even think things like that when there was a twisted, disgusting, horrendous corpse lying only a foot behind me? It was not only inappropriate; it was disgusting! It was foul! It was-

"The chemicals would upset my skin."

My mouth fell open.

Yes, Sherlock, because that was the only reason why it was a bad idea.

* * *

"I don't suppose you have a Nokia charger anywhere, do you?"

I looked around the cluttered apartment, thoroughly thankful to be away from Barts and back somewhere slightly nicer. Well, that was as long as Sherlock didn't have any nasty experiment lying about again.

Sherlock finished sticking the last of the crime scene photographs to the wall above the fireplace and popped himself up on the back of one of the armchairs, so that he was eyelevel with them. He stared focused, raising his hands to form a bridge under his chin.

"Bottom right drawer of that desk." He told me, not really giving me any attention.

I went over to the desk in the corner of the room and pulled open the said drawer. After a minute of rummaging through papers and seemingly random objects, like an old broken harmonica, I pulled out what I needed.

"Ok," I said warily, "why is there an orange attached to the charger?"

"Experiment."

I turned away from the charger lead sticking out of the fruit peel and faced Sherlock, cocking my head to the side, more than a little confused. "Attempting to charge an orange?"

"Don't be ridiculous." He let out simply, not elaborating on what he has actually been doing. I guessed he thought it was painfully obvious as to why someone would stick a charger into an orange. It wasn't to me.

But that was Sherlock, wasn't it?

I knew I was intelligent. I had done my A-levels in one year instead of two, graduated from Edinburgh University with a first, spent four years at Cambridge doing my doctorate, and since then had spent the past three and a half years working my way up through the ranks at one of the UK's most respected museums. I wasn't famous or a renowned professor, but my name was still occasionally mentioned by those in the field. My IQ was in the top two percent of the country's.

But being around Sherlock somehow always made me feel like a dumb primary school kid. He was just that intelligent. He wasn't a genius; he was a level above that. And no one else even came close. He was separated – not necessarily better, but undeniably apart – from everyone else.

It must have been lonely.

Hell, I _knew_ it was lonely. My emotional incapability meant that I too had felt it. The separation. Everyone else and their feelings were just… there. And I was here. And Sherlock was somewhere else entirely.

If it meant that our loneliness was even slightly dulled, then I was most definitely willing to put up with feeling a bit stupid.

"Do you want something to eat?" I offered, plugging my phone into the lead which I had wiped clean of orange juice. Sherlock didn't say anything and I walked over to the kitchen, opening one of the cupboards to see if there was any food in the apartment at all. "Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

I sighed. "I asked whether you wanted something to eat?"

"Oh," he said, still gazing purposefully at the photos, "No. I don't eat when I'm on a case. It slows me down."

I shut the cupboard door and crossed my arms. "No wonder you're so skinny then. You have to eat, Sherlock. You'll get malnourished."

But I didn't get any response. He was back in his own little world inside his massive brain. I rolled my eyes and gave up on trying to find food in this flat, instead going over to Sherlock and perching myself on the armrest of the chair he was balanced on. After what I had seen in the mortuary, those photographs suddenly didn't seem so bad anymore.

I flicked my gaze up to Sherlock. There was something so very charismatic about him… when he wasn't bored and whining like an infant, that is.

"You said Daniel Waters was with Mr. Peterson last night, right?" I asked.

"Yes."

"And you said he was fed up of being the secret lover and wanted Mr. Peterson to leave his wife?" Sherlock didn't move which I took for an agreement. "Then what if they got into an argument and he stabbed him, but then, having realised what he'd done, decided to kill himself? Does that ever actually happen in real life or is it just in the movies?"

Sherlock frowned.

"It does, and it's an impressive train of thought from you." Why did he have to add the '_from you'_? "But Mr. Waters did not kill our victim."

"How do you know?"

"Isn't it obvious?" he asked as if he genuinely thought it was. I grumbled but didn't press the matter further. Just because I was _willing_ to feel stupid in exchange for his company, didn't mean I embraced it.

I decided a tactical change in subject was the best solution. "You do know that two of your shirt buttons have come off, don't you?"

Sherlock had narrowed his eyes at the pictures again. "Sure."

I knew he wasn't even listening.

"So your happy having everyone and his aunt seeing your stomach, are you?"

Another moment's pause before he repeated, "Sure."

I sighed and stood up. "Have you got a sewing kit around here somewhere?"

Nothing.

"Sure."

"_Sherlock_!"

"Yes?" he asked as if nothing had happened and he had been listening the entire time. Which I was positive he hadn't been. Not even his acting could convince me of that.

"Have you got a sewing kit?" I recapped slowly, making sure he understood.

"I'm a scientist; of course I have a sewing kit."

I did not even want to know about that one.

* * *

I carefully pushed the needle through the small button hole and pulled it out the other side, not wanting to catch Sherlock's pale skin underneath. It would have been so much simpler had he just agreed to actually take the shirt off, but apparently that was a waste of time when he could be thinking about the case. He could be such a stubborn child sometimes. I wondered what he did before John moved in. It was surprising he hadn't either starved to death or accidently blown himself up.

I heard a door open from downstairs and footsteps trotting closer, but continued to loop the thread through the button, reattaching it to the shirt. The door to the living room opened and shut.

"Hi, Sherlock, how's it going with th- Oh, God, Melanie! I'm so sorry!"

I popped my head out around Sherlock and looked at the squirming John, one of his hands now placed squarely across his eyes.

"What?" I asked. Why was he acting like that?

"Gah… err… it's… I mean… in the living room…"

I suddenly realised what the scene must have looked like to him. There was Sherlock, crouching on the back of the armchair, facing the opposite direction, and there was me, kneeling in between his legs, my hands and face on his lower abdomen. Of course, John didn't know it was his abdomen I was looking at.

"Oh, no, no, no!" I let out quickly, suppressing my laughter. I broke the thread by the base of the button and held it and the needle up for John to see. "Fixing his shirt, that's all!"

John slowly lowered his hands and gazed at the needle. He sighed. "Good. I mean, not good, but, you know, well… yeah."

I chuckled and got to my feet.

"You've taken your time." Sherlock spoke up, still not turning away from the fascinating wall.

John walked into the room properly and dumped his coat on the couch. "I've had work, Sherlock."

"I thought I told you to interview Mr. Peterson's colleagues?"

John went over to the kitchen and switched on the kettle. I packed up the sewing kit on the table before slumping down into the other armchair.

"I did." He said, reaching around for a clean mug, "Apparently Samuel Peterson had somewhat of an abrasive relationship with one of his co-workers. They had a major fight on the day he died about something, but no one would tell me what."

"Who?" I asked.

"One of the other partners in the firm." John finally found a clean mug and placed a teabag into it. "I've made notes in the notepad in my jacket pocket, if you want to read them. And after that I went to work. Sarah says hi."

Sherlock snorted. I laughed quietly.

Then it hit me.

"Oh my God," I shouted, "work! I completely forgot! I have to go! I-"

"It's seven thirty in the evening, Melanie." Sherlock told me.

I faltered in my rush to pick up my belongings and get out of there. Seven thirty? Already? But that meant I had missed an entire work day! And I hadn't even rung in! Ah, Christ I was going to have some explaining to do tomorrow. My boss would so not be happy with me.

I collapsed back into the chair and groaned.

John finished making himself a cup of tea and came and stood behind Sherlock, narrowing his eyes at the photographs on the wall. He took a sip of the tea before asking, "What did you find out today?"

"Something's wrong."

I snapped myself out of my self-pity and looked at Sherlock. Of course something was wrong. Otherwise I wouldn't have to lug around this bloody tracer on my wrist. When did two dead bodies and a set up not count as wrong?

"What?" John asked before I could.

Sherlock didn't move, but the unyielding look in his eyes gave away his feelings quite eloquently.

"Someone's missing."

* * *

_Sorry this one took so long to get out, but I've been really busy. Hopefully the fact that this one was super long made up for it though._ _Although it kind of dwindled off at the end I think._

_After such a long time apart, it would be nice to hear from you guys again, yes? In a review maybe? Please?_


	16. Incoherence

**Sixteen**  
_**Incoherence **_

"What do you mean?" I finally whispered after what must have been a good minute of hushed silence. "Missing from where?"

Sherlock practically leapt up off of the chair and over to the photographs above the fireplace. He started inspecting each picture in turn, his eyes getting that dangerous glint I was becoming so accustomed to.

"There should be someone else." He said frantically. "It doesn't make sense otherwise. Just someone, anyone, else. They're missing from the frame. They're missing from my line of _thought_."

He spat out the last word, as if they very notion of someone being able to go unnoticed by his mind was despicable.

"Another body?" John asked surprised.

Sherlock spun around and began pacing the room. I tried not to watch him, knowing I'd probably just get a headache in the process.

"Don't be so idiotic, John."

I rolled my eyes. Of course, John not being able to read Sherlock's mind was now idiotic and not at all a limit of a _normal_ person's capabilities. We were all psychics and genii, weren't we? At least we should be, according to Sherlock anyway.

"Then who? A suspect?"

Sherlock continued pacing. It was rather disconcerting. "Maybe."

I almost laughed. "Sherlock, you can't be serious! You've already got an abandoned spouse, a rejected lover and now an angry colleague! And you're saying you need to throw someone else into the mix? How many enemies can one man have? Most people don't have any!"

"Do you?" Sherlock had suddenly stopped and was looking at me with a curious gaze. I gave him a patronising stare.

"Oh, yeah, of course," I answered, my voice dripping with sarcasm, "just look at me. Melanie Hunt, curator and history geek. People are just queuing up to bump me off." Sherlock grunted and resumed his important trekking of the small living room, obviously unimpressed with my answer. I frowned. "Although after today I doubt Molly would be completely adverse to a spot of light murder when it came to me."

"You met Molly?" John enquired. I nodded with a sad smile. John chuckled. "I bet that went down well."

I suddenly felt rather guilty. "I think I made her cry."

John shook his head. "Don't worry about tha-"

"Would you two kindly stop your mindless chattering? Some of us are actually trying to use their brain!"

John and I both promptly shut up and looked at Sherlock, eyebrows raised. He was standing, not pacing, in the doorway of the kitchen, one of his hands clutching at his hair, scowling at a nice spot on the floor in front of him. Maybe this case was getting to him more than I had thought. Maybe he was actually caring about keeping me out of jail? Or maybe he was just annoyed at not knowing something. The latter option seemed the most likely.

"Lipstick on the neck, footprints in the attic, coincidental suicide," he was rambling to himself now, going over the clues in a way I was positive neither John nor I could do, "dog bite, fake jewellery, untouched books, missed deadlines, trips to Crete, spilled drink, paper knife, blown fuse, diar-"

He suddenly stopped, his frown disappearing.

"What?" I said softly, feeling the level of excitement rise in my bloodstream.

"Shh!" Sherlock shushed me, keeping his eyes on the floor.

For a couple of minutes none of us moved. John and I were frightened of distracting Sherlock when he was clearly on a roll, not to mention frightened of having him shout insults at us about how uselessly stupid and annoying we were. A silence washed over the apartment, only broken by the low EastEnders theme tune reverberating its way up from Mrs. Hudson's room downstairs and the gentle ticking of the one clock in the flat that Sherlock hadn't smashed during one of his moods.

Then suddenly-

"Yes!" Sherlock exclaimed, clapping his hands together. Then, without any further explanation, he swept up his coat from the table and marched out of the room. I looked from the door which he had left through, to John, back to the door, and then to John again.

He sighed.

"Sorry," he said apologetically, "I've been trying to get him to stop doing that."

I laughed.

"Go after him?"

John nodded, a smile on his face. "Go after him."

We both hurriedly picked up our jackets and exited the apartment, doing exactly what we usually did.

Trying to keep up with Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

The recognizable scent of leather filled my nostrils as I climbed on into the taxi after John, shutting the door behind me. Sherlock had already got his phone out and was busy texting away or looking something up or just generally doing something other than talking to us. As soon as the door had shut the cab was pulling away from the pavement.

Sherlock had already told the driver where we were going.

It was considerate of him, really, to even think of waiting until we had caught up with him. It must have taken some form of self-control.

Maybe he was sick.

"Sherlock, where are we going?" John was the first to speak up, not looking at all surprised by his flatmate's behaviour. But then again, he was probably used to this by now.

"Clapham Common."

"And _why_ are we going to Clapham?" I asked.

"Paper knife!" Sherlock said as if it explained everything. He glanced up and saw our almost identical looks of bewilderment. "It was a paper knife! Don't you _see_?"

When it became clear to him that neither John nor I did _see_, he sighed dramatically.

"Good lord, it must be boring in your little minds."

I glared at him, but didn't say anything on the matter. Compared to how Sherlock saw the world, it probably was boring in our heads. Then again, at least we didn't keep human limbs in the fridge.

"What's so interesting about the paper knife, except that it was the murder weapon, of course?" John said. He didn't even look mildly insulted by Sherlock's words.

Sherlock put his phone onto his lap, turned to me, and waved a finger in my face as a parent would to a naughty child. I tried to keep rather inappropriate thoughts of Sherlock reprimanding me out of my head, knowing it would lead nowhere good.

"Melanie, get your mind out of the gutter for a few seconds and think." Oh, dear. Sherlock obviously knew what I was thinking. And now he had pointed it out to everyone. Thanks. "You saw the room where our victim was killed. Concentrate on it. Picture every detail. What wasn't there that should have been?"

"Uh…" Well, a lot of things weren't there – an elephant riding a motorcycle for example, or a cat playing the banjo – but I was guessing Sherlock wanted something a bit more relevant to the case. And to the letter opener apparently. I supposed the murder weapon itself wasn't in the room, but that could have just been because the murderer carried it downstairs afterwards. There wasn't any strange reason for it. Something else then. Something to do with a paper kni- I frowned as I realised something. "There wasn't a desk."

Sherlock looked slightly taken aback for a moment. His eyes narrowed. "How did you get that?"

"Umm…" Had I said something stupid again? "Well, you said something was missing, but a letter opener and I don't know, it just sort of-"

"That was uncharacteristically intelligent of you."

I blinked. Had he just complimented me? If he had then it had certainly been hidden behind a heavy veil of abuse. But still, I wasn't going to complain about the first real praise he had given me. Beggars can't be choosers.

"Hang on," John piped up, "what has a desk got to do with anything?"

"It was a crime of passion, John." Sherlock began, giving his friend a condescending glance. I could tell he was secretly enjoying this. "In a crime of passion people use the first weapon that comes to hand, and there were many hefty objects in that room that would have been adequate in causing grievous harm. But no one keeps a letter opener in their bedroom unless it's on a desk, and there was no desk in that room. Someone brought that letter opener into the room prior to the murder."

"But why?" I asked. "Unless it wasn't a crime of passion but was made to look like one?"

"Of course it was a crime of passion. I would have noticed if it wasn't." Sherlock casually overlooked how pompous that sounded. I couldn't blame him, really. He would have noticed. He was just that good. "But the lights! Didn't you notice the torch in the hallway?"

"Sorry, I was a bit busy being arrested and all."

"I thought you said the fuse had blown?" John queried. I thought back to last night and remembered just how dark the house had been when I had arrived. Apparently the fuse _had_ blown – the police had checked it out and hadn't found any sign of tampering. So it was an accident and not part of a planned murder. But the murder itself certainly hadn't been an accident. No one trips while holding a paper knife and just happens to drive it into a man's chest seven times. That was pushing things a bit far.

Sherlock's eyes lit up as he turned to John.

"Exactly!"

Oh, that cleared things up for us, didn't it? It was all so simple now.

"Sherlock." I said in my best demanding teacher voice. "What happened?"

He calmly turned around and began staring out of the window as we swept down the busy London street – probably cross-examining all of the pedestrians as we passed them by.

"I can't be certain yet. And that's why we're going to Clapham Common."

I sighed.

Because that answered all of my questions.

* * *

_Back to its usual length now I'm afraid. Lots of clues given away now though. Anyone have any ideas as to whodunit? _

_Review?_


	17. Inhibitions

**Seventeen**  
_**Inhibitions**_

Sherlock had refused to say anymore on the subject for the rest of the journey.

I say refused, but really it was just ignoring mine and John's questions and staring off into space. John gave up after a minute. I did the same after another three. There was no point in talking to Sherlock when he was like this.

The black cab ground to a slow stop on the side of the road, outside a large department store with garish red and yellow posters promoting how fabulous their sale was. I hoped Sherlock hadn't dragged us all this way just to get a good deal on a new suit.

John paid the driver as Sherlock and I walked up to the reflective glass of the automatic doors. The entire store, apart from the fluorescent red sign hung above the entrance, was in darkness.

"It closed an hour ago." I pointed out, reading the opening times printed before me.

"Clearly." Sherlock replied impassively. I saw in the surface of the glass the taxi drive away and quickly John joined us in staring at the deserted shop window.

"Ok, then, why are we here, Sherlock?" he asked.

"Excellent question, John." Sherlock answered. I was getting more than a little irritated at his cryptic responses. But before I could say anything else about what an annoying prick he was being, Sherlock had started to dash off in another direction.

I sighed. "What now?"

John chuckled and we jogged on after Sherlock. I was expecting him to continue along the street, maybe knocking at one of the doors to the plain terraced houses along the way, but was surprised to see the coated figure swiftly rotate and disappear down a side alley I hadn't even noticed before.

We came to a halt half way down the alley, me trying not to breathe in through my nose. There was a nasty looking dumpster just in front of us, and I hoped Sherlock wasn't expecting us to rifle through any putrid rubbish in some unknown adventure. The adventure of the old fish guts. That's what John would call it on his blog. Nice.

There was an old metal door set in the dusty brick walls, the kind of door used for a fire exit. Sherlock had placed the side of his head to it.

"Oh, come on," I moaned, "We're not breaking in, are we?"

Sherlock didn't say anything. All I knew is that one second the door was firmly shut, and the next it had swung open as easily as if a key had been used. Damn that man and his criminal skills. He stepped into the dark of the building.

John groaned, "Sorry, Melanie, but I think we are."

"Great." I muttered. "As if a murder charge wasn't enough for me."

Tentatively, seriously wishing I was at home tucked up in bed with a cup of tea, I stepped in after John.

"Look for the admin office." Sherlock instructed us. I held my arms around my chest. It was cold in here. And dingy. I was right, though; it was a fire exit. We were standing in a dark, empty stairwell, steps leading both up and down. There wasn't anything on the level we were at apart from a set of black double doors in the corner and a small grey sign telling us this was the Ground Floor. A cheery place to work, then. Sherlock walked over to the doors. "John, you look on the first floor. Mela-"

"I want to go with John!" I suddenly let out, surprising even myself. John blinked and stared at me. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and gave me a very curious look. My stomach squirmed a little. "I mean… Well… He has a gun."

Sherlock sighed and turned away, but not without me spotting just how far his eyes rolled. "Fine. Melanie-" I could hear the silent '_the scaredy-cat'_ on the end of that. "-can go with John." And then the silent _'the macho trained soldier'_.

Screw him.

I wasn't that much of a wimp!

* * *

It was funny. You could be in a completely normal, everyday setting, such as a school or the very museum you worked in, but when it got dark outside, when the lights went out and everybody left, it was still mighty creepy.

It was the same here.

I had been to dozens of department stores exactly like this one, some packed out in a Christmas rush, others almost deserted except for me and a couple of ladies working the tills. But at those times the dazzling overhead lights were on. But at those times the manikins weren't cast in an eerie shadow; the items on the shelves were more than just dark unrecognisable shapes; the racks weren't transformed into terrifying figures in my mind. At those times, it had been safe.

"You alright?"

I jumped slightly at the sudden sound of a voice nearby, then kicked myself internally. John had paused and turned to face me. Even in this gloom I could see the worried crinkles marking his forehead.

"Yeah." I answered, a large smile plastered across my face. "It's just a shop, right?"

John nodded reassuringly.

I couldn't help the doubt that niggled into my brain. If it was just a shop, then why had Sherlock dragged us out here and broken in? Why were we searching blindly in the dark for the administration office of an _ordinary_ store? The only answer I could come to was that it wasn't so ordinary, after all.

"It's ok to be scared, you know." John told me, reaching out and patting my still crossed arms. "I know you're not used to these kinds of things."

"I'm not scared!" I said defiantly. For some reason, I didn't want to look weak around John. He was strong. He had fought in Afghanistan. He went on these quests with Sherlock all the time and didn't flinch in the face of danger. He was the kind of person Sherlock could get on with. I needed to be like him.

I covered my mouth with my hands to stifle the scream as I felt the sudden weight land on my shoulder out of nowhere.

I swept around, my heart racing.

Sherlock stood there. Smirking his arse off.

Oh yeah, I wasn't scared at all.

"Sherlock, don't frighten her." John scolded wearily. I pouted. So much for me looking strong around him – a simple tap on my shoulder had almost sent me over the edge. Damn it.

No.

Damn Sherlock.

"I didn't mean to frighten her."

Of course he didn't, he always chose to creep up on someone in the dark without announcing it was him. Actually, he really did. The slimy bastard.

"I thought you were checking the second floor?" I asked, trying to get some of my dignity back. Sherlock seemed to take more and more of it away from me every day.

"Done. Nothing." He said flippantly. Well, that was quick of him. It had only been ten minutes. "You're slowing John down."

Gah.

John sighed. "No she's not."

"Yes she is. John, go check the basement. I'll continue from here with Melanie. It'll be quicker that way."

"Sher-"

"It's fine." I said, giving John a meaningful look. It was clear he correctly understood the meaning to be '_do you really expect to change Sherlock's mind when he's like this? The idiot won't even take off his shirt so I can sew his buttons back on._' as he just slumped his shoulders resignedly and hiked back in the direction we had come, giving me a friendly strength-summoning touch on the arm as he went.

When I had judged him to be safely out of earshot I asked Sherlock my question.

"Why did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Swapping with John and staying with me?" Ah, Christ, that made me sound like some pet that needed to be looked after and handed around by the family.

"I told you, it'll be quicker this way." He said plainly.

I raised an eyebrow at him disbelievingly. "And?"

Sherlock stepped closer to me so that we were less than a foot apart. His brow was furrowed. It was as if he was surprised I had actually noticed anything. "And I knew you would feel less frightened with me here."

I scoffed. "Why do you think that I'd feel safer with you around than I would with a gun-wielding army man?"

"Because you do." He stared at me, eyes focused on mine. I bit my bottom lip nervously. "Your heart rate has already lessened – although in the last ten seconds it's started rising again, but that's not to do with fear – your breathing's more regular, and your speech has returned to normal. You're certainly still scared, but not nearly as much as before you realised I was here."

I quickly turned away and grumbled something under my breath. I wasn't scared. I was… I was… Alright, I guess I was terrified. But that didn't mean Sherlock had to point it out to me.

"Anyways, the office." Sherlock changed the subject swiftly and began marching down the dark aisle.

"Sherlock!" I called after him. He stopped and turned. I shifted my feet anxiously, staring at the ground in front of me. It was stupid, I knew that, and it was most definitely not like my normal self. But since when was this situation like anything that my normal self had been in before? And since he already knew my exact level of fear from my physiological responses… "Will you… will you hold my hand?"

There was a second's pause.

"What?" he sounded genuinely stunned, and more than a little worried.

In answer I raised my hand out towards him. "Please."

"Are you unwell?"

I raised my head and looked at him. His face was priceless and I suddenly found myself wishing I had a camera on me. It was the most undignified I had ever seen him. He looked horrified. I wanted to laugh but my nerves were still taking hold of me. I slowly shook my head. "No."

Sherlock seemed to realise what he must look like as he abruptly coughed and his expression went back to his usual stony defiance. He took the few steps back to where I was, grunted in displeasure, but nevertheless reached out and grasped my hand.

I had no idea where the small grin that crept onto my face came from.

* * *

"Are you thinking about telling me why we're here anytime soon?" I asked three minutes later as we trotted along an aisle that looked like it was stocked with microwaves. He was still one step in front of me, as he always was, but now the gap between us was bridged with our touching hands. Sherlock wasn't really holding mine, but I was just grateful he wasn't pulling away from my grip. It helped in a place like this.

God, I really was a wimp, wasn't I?

"The torch in the hallway." He said, leading me around a corner and along a different lane. "It was a common model, owned by thousands of people, but the casing was different. I only just recognised it though. It's a standardised issue for the employees of this store, to be used when dealing with items in the basement warehouse. It was well worn, meaning it would have to belong to someone who worked in a branch where it was needed often. This branch has had five power cuts in the past month alone. That and the proximity to Daniel Water's place of suicide led me here."

"Oh," was all I could say to that. After all the speculation that had been going around my mind, after all my worrying, was it really something that mundane? "And we need to find the admin office because…?"

"Because there's a firewall around the computer system making it impossible to access the details of any employees on any computer other than that of the branch they work in and the mainframe in Manchester."

"But who's this employee and what have they got to do with Mr. Peterson?" I sputtered out, now extremely confused. This plot just got weirder and weirder as the day progressed. I could barely believe it had been less than twenty four hours since I got arrested.

"That's what I hope to find out." Sherlock led me to the end of the row and turned. We started on up the new aisle. "Ah."

I peered ahead, wanting to know what had got Sherlock suddenly moving so quickly. Then I saw it. At the end of the row, on the opposite wall, was a large dark door. There was a label on it, but I couldn't read it from this distance in this light. It was clear what it must be though, judging on Sherlock's actions – the office we were looking for.

As soon as we had stepped into the small cramped room Sherlock had let go of my hand and ran over to the computer on the desk. He switched it on and a dull blue light flooded the room, making everything seem rather ethereal.

I stood by the open door and crossed my arms again. I couldn't help it. The vague sense of protection I had felt when holding Sherlock's hand had vanished. I was alone again. A cold shiver ran down my spine.

Sherlock was typing away on the computer, too absorbed in his actions to notice me.

My head snapped around and I stared out into the dark shop floor.

Was that? No, I had imagined it, hadn't I?

My eyes popped wide.

"Sherlock," I found that I was whispering, "I can hear footsteps."

"It'll just be John." He pointed out as if I was an over-excitable child. I looked from him to the darkness beyond the office. Sherlock was right. It was just John. Nothing else. The wimpy scaredy-cat just got too animated at the slightest of sounds. I really needed to buckle up.

A buzz came from near Sherlock, causing me to jump.

"Get my phone." He told me. I rolled my eyes and tried to laugh at myself. This was too much, Melanie. Grow up.

I walked over to Sherlock and reached into the top pocket of his suit jacket where I knew his phone would be. I switched it open.

_1 new message_

I clicked the '_read'_ button, knowing Sherlock would want to be told what was going on rather than actually stop looking at the computer screen for five seconds.

The phone fell through my fingers and clattered onto the desk.

Sherlock paused and looked up at me, a frown on his face.

No expression was on my face and my mouth opened and closed several times before I could make anything out.

"It's not John."

Sherlock swept the phone off of the table. I knew what he was reading. I knew what he must be coming to realise, just as I had done. I could see it as his face dropped.

_Nothing in the basement. Going to check the ground floor.  
- John_

But if John was on the ground floor, then whose footsteps were that?

Before either of us had time to react, the door to the office slammed shut.

* * *

_Woo, cliffhanger. Sorry. _

_Um, so I know nothing really happened in the last one, but I still thought it deserved at least one review. But apparently not, it seems. Thanks guys._


	18. Internment

**Eighteen**  
_**Internment**_

Both mine and Sherlock's heads snapped up at the thunderous sound.

The office was exactly as it had been – no new murderers present, and no new twisted bodies lying in a heap on the floor – but now the door was shut. Shuffling and clanking was coming from the other side of that door.

Sherlock ran over. He tried the handle. It wouldn't turn.

"Wh-"

"Shut up." He told me, placing his head to the door and listening to what was going on outside. The noises stopped. Sherlock pushed against the door hard. It rumbled but didn't budge. He acted quickly, gliding over to the desk, picking up one of the biros, and heading back to the door. He inserted the pen into the keyhole and rattled it around for a few seconds. Even I managed to hear the definite click in the lock. He tried the handle again. This time, it turned, but even when Sherlock basically ran into the frame, the door didn't open.

"Damn."

"We're not… we're not locked in, are we?" I asked, feeling the panic begin to rise in my veins. "I mean, you can get us out, right?"

"Unless you've got a blowtorch hidden anywhere in those skin tight jeans, I'm afraid I can't do anything." He barked at me, the frustration clear on his face.

"But you break into my apartment all the time!"

"Yes, but you don't keep sheet metal behind your door!" he snapped back. Sheet metal? A proper thick layer of metal? How the hell did someone put that behind the bloody door?

My breathing was getting shorter. My heart rate was beginning to rise to dangerous heights. I couldn't get enough air into my lungs. I just couldn't.

"Did I ever mention that I was claustrophobic?" I gasped out, pacing around the room and fanning myself with my hands. "Because I am and this is not funny and I can't breathe and I need to get out of here and what's going on and what about the air supply, oh my God, we're going to suffocate and-"

"Melanie." Sherlock said firmly. "You are not claustrophobic."

I stopped pacing in the middle of the small room and dropped my hands. My breathing was still rapid, but something had clicked in my mind with Sherlock's words.

"Oh yeah."

"And this room isn't exactly airtight so we're not going to suffocate."

My heart beat slowed. I nodded decisively, trying to steady myself. Panicking was not going to help anyone. I needed to think clearly. "Ok."

Sherlock calmly walked back over to the desk and continued typing away on the computer.

"Can you call for help?" I asked, my breathing almost normal again.

"In a minute." He answered, but nevertheless picked his phone up from the desk where he had dropped it and started moving his thumbs quickly over the keypad. His eyes darted from the screen on the phone to the one on the computer. A smile crept onto his face. "Of course."

"Wh-"

"I'll call for help." He cut me off and stood up straight, smoothing down his coat as he did so. He pressed a button on his mobile before lifting it to his ear. It was a sign of how urgent he deemed this situation that he wasn't texting. For Sherlock, any form of human contact was a last resort.

"John?" he asked into the cell. He suddenly stopped and pulled the phone away. He looked at it, a frown creasing his forehead. Finally, he shrugged. "It's out of battery."

I blinked.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"It's dead." He commented as if it was nothing, chucking the phone over to me. It caught it untidily and peered at it. The screen was indeed black. Sherlock didn't seem to realise what a dire situation this was. "You use your phone."

I gagged. "I can't use my phone!"

"Why not?" he said lazily, pulling the swivel chair out from under the desk and collapsing into it.

I gritted my teeth together. "_Because it's back at your apartment, plugged into your wall and charging like your bloody orange!"_

Sherlock spun around on the chair once. "I already told you, I was not trying to charge the ora-"

"The computer!" I cried in realisation, dashing over and standing beside Sherlock. "We can email someone or something!"

Sherlock didn't move, which I interpreted as compliance. I leaned over and grabbed the mouse, switching onto the internet. I wondered who I could contact. Did the emergency services have a website or something? They really should in this day and age. Lots of people probably got in trouble with only a computer and no phone. I was about to ask Sherlock what I should do when everything went decidedly darker.

I clicked the mouse numerous times. I fumbled around and pressed the power button again. Nothing. It was all black.

"The power's out."

Oh, is it, Sherlock? _Really_? That was so helpful of you to point out you scrawny little meathead. Why, if you weren't so strong and I was a hundred pounds heavier then-

"We'll just have to wait."

I let out a immense sigh. I didn't want to think about just what we were waiting for – it was too nasty a thought. Instead I focused on what was happening at the moment. And the main problem with that, of course, was that, with the only source of light in the room out of action, it was now slightly dark. And when I say slightly, I mean pitch black with my eyes not being able to make out anything in front of me.

I dug around in my jacket pocket and drew out the one thing that could make me feel slightly better.

Sherlock was going to kick himself for giving up smoking.

I flicked open my good Zippo lighter. The desk immediately sprung into a hazy orange glow, long shadows being cast across the floor. I navigated my way around the table, flopped down onto the scratchy carpet, and slumped against the cold wall. I placed the lighter on the floor beside me, hoping the fluid wasn't going to run out anytime soon.

I closed my eyes, thinking back to simpler times when a surprise visit from my brother at work was what I considered a hectic day. I was surprised when I felt something appear by the side. My eyes flickered open.

Sherlock was sat leaning against the wall, staring off at the filing cabinet across from us. Did he not like the one chair in the room or something?

"You know," I started, gazing questionably at the deep shadows marking his features, "In the movies this is the part where the main characters are forced to spend so much time in such close proximity that they unexpectedly realise that they've been in love all along."

A smile sneaked up onto Sherlock's face. "Somehow I doubt that will happen here."

I laughed and nodded. "_Somehow_, so do I."

We sat like that for a few minutes, neither talking, but eventually my curiosity got the better of me and I had to ask.

"You know who did it, don't you? The murder."

"Yes."

I frowned and turned to him. He wasn't looking at me, but the strange orange light was shining odd reflections in his eyes. "Who?"

"The aunt." He said evenly, not giving anything else away.

"Aunt?" I asked, my frown deepening, "Where'd he get an aunt from?"

Sherlock looked at me and gave me a patronizing stare. I rolled my eyes. "Oh, you know what I mean."

He sighed.

"I'll explain later." He just said, closing his eyes.

"Because there's not enough time now?" I asked slowly. Sherlock suddenly slammed his head into the wall behind us, causing me to jump in the process. "Sher-"

"_Bored!_"

Oh, yippee.

"We've been in here five minutes!" I pointed out disbelievingly.

"And those five minutes have been dull enough to put the entire population of London into a coma."

I rubbed my forehead. This was not good. A bored Sherlock I could just about handle at the best of times. A bored Sherlock locked in a tiny room with absolutely nothing to do… Well, I didn't really want to imagine it. Then again, I didn't really need to.

I had the sudden urge to ensure there weren't any dangerous weapons in the office that could be used to attack walls, furniture, or any other inanimate object that was cruel enough to mock Sherlock with its existence.

"Why don't you try sleeping?" I let out after a yawn. "God knows, I could use a nap. I haven't slept a good night's sleep in days."

Sherlock made a noise half way between a scoff and a grunt. A thought popped into my head. It was a thought I should have had a long time ago, really, but it never seemed to be that important before now.

"Do you even sleep?" I asked warily.

"Of course I sleep." He muttered in response. "I'm not a machine."

"I've never seen you do it."

He hit his head against the wall again. I wondered whether that was really helping. "I don't sleep after sex – that's enough of a waste of time on its own."

I ignored the last part of that sentence. At least that explained why at times when I was passing out, not wanting to raise a finger to do anything, Sherlock was always surreptitiously getting dressed and wandering off somewhere else. It did however, mean something else too.

"Sherlock, you can't live solely off adrenaline, without food or sleep."

"Yes, I can."

"No, you can't."

"Yes, I can."

"_No_, you can't."

Sherlock huffed, his next move taking me off guard.

One minute he was just sitting next to me, staring at the filing cabinet, and the next he was curled up on the floor, coat thrown over to some insignificant corner, his head lying firmly in the centre of my lap, staring at my stomach.

"_Right_."I said extremely slowly, more than a little bit shocked. And suspicious. Sherlock did not curl up on people's laps like a kitten. It was just… weird.

"Sleep is boring." He told me plainly. I blinked. Ok, then. "Entertain me."

I couldn't help it. I just couldn't. This was just so utterly ridiculous. The laughter poured out of me like a balloon that had been over-inflated and needed to lose some air desperately. And once I started it was incredibly difficult to stop. This was a murder case. Sherlock and I had been trapped in here by a _murderer_ – who was apparently someone's aunt – and what did we talk about? What happens in movies and how to fend off boredom by not sleeping.

Sherlock twisted his neck so that he was looking at me, his eyes narrowed. "Have you finally gone insane?"

With great effort, I held the laughter back. It began gradually to diminish until it was no more than a few silent chuckles and a grin. "Sorry. But it's funny."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "What?"

"Nothing, nothing." I swept aside, waving a hand through the air dismissively. I then lowered it, letting it come to rest on the side of Sherlock's head, fingers subconsciously stroking the dark curls. Sherlock said nothing but untwisted himself so that he was comfortable once again, staring at (ironically enough) one of my shirt buttons. "Entertain you, eh? Ok… So, you've had quite a while to observe me now, haven't you?"

"I suppose."

"So you must know practically everything about me?" I grinned, happy at where this conversation was heading, mainly because I was steering it there.

"That's a slight exaggeration but close enough."

"Well, then," I started with a smirk, "how about we continue our little game? Of course, now the questions about me will be a lot more difficult. No more simple ones about age and hair dye."

Sherlock just shrugged lazily. He was trying not to seem interested, and most of him probably wasn't, but I could tell from the tiniest of twitches in his right foot that he was curious. Now all I needed to do was think of some good questions.

"Alright," I began confidently, "What's my favourite food?"

"Pass."

"You can't pass!" I yelled in astonishment.

"I can if the question's easy enough." He snapped back. "It's obviously cheese and marmite sandwiches. You eat about nine a week."

"I do not!"

Sherlock glanced up at me, his eyes conveying his scepticism. I let out a sharp breath of air obstinately. "Fine then. Next question; where did I grow up?"

"You were born in Birmingham, but moved when you were a few months old to just outside Southampton, where your parents still live, hence your father's accent."

"When did you hear my father?" I sputtered out.

"He rang." He said matter-of-factly.

"And you _answered_?"

"Of course. You should know that his retirement party is scheduled for sometime next month." I stared at him. This man really needed to be taught about privacy and personal space. It just wasn't normal for someone to pick up another person's phone and chat away to their parents as if it was nothing, and then forget to mention this conversation to anyone else entirely!

Oh, God. What had he said to my father?

A malicious thought crossed my mind. "Who's my favourite actor?"

I felt Sherlock tense beneath my hand. I was positive this would catch him out. He thought Johnny Depp was a type of apple.

He was silent for half a minute, before decisively telling me, "The Scandinavian one."

"Which one?" I mocked. He didn't say anything. "Oh, fine, I'll give you some options to choose from if you really _need_ them; Alexander Skarsgard, Viggo Mortensen, Warner Oland, Dennis Storhoi, or Dolph Lundgren. They're all Scandinavian actors. Pick your man."

It took another moment for him to reply.

"The one who looks like a tramp with a sword."

"Hey! Aragorn is hot and not in any way a tramp with a sword!"

"Who's Ara-"

It was my turn to hit my head forcefully against the wall.

"Never mind." I muttered, giving up on trying educating Sherlock in the world of popular culture. My head now hurt. I bit my bottom lip. A thought had just occurred to me. I had had the thought several times over the past couple of weeks, but had never really had the confidence to do anything about it. Now, however, I had Sherlock all to myself. And he couldn't run away or make up excuses about a case. "Why… Why were you first interested in me?"

Sherlock acted as if it was just another question. "Because you _are_ interesting."

I scoffed. "No, Sherlock, I'm really dull."

"No, you're current life is really dull. _You_, however, are interesting."

I thought about that for a second. My current life? What did he mean by that? And I was pretty certain that, no matter how he put it, I was still me, the boring historian with no aptitude for adrenaline. The complete opposite of Sherlock Holmes, in fact. And he was interesting.

"Why?" was all I managed to come out with.

Sherlock rolled slightly so that he could look up at me as he spoke, his face completely devoid of any emotion. "You come from an average middle-class background. Your family clearly get along perfectly and most would say that they love you. You're intelligent, no matter how often your actions say otherwise, and that is clear by how far you've progressed in your occupation at such a young age. You have slightly higher levels of social skills than usual and find that you can interact with almost anyone. You're also attractive and have never been perceptibly overweight. It is curious then," his eyes narrowed slightly, "as to why, when you were fifteen, you chose to become a drug addict."

My mind went blank, my face travelling with it.

I didn't know what to say, what to do.

When had he first noticed? How had he noticed?

"Did," I swallowed nervously, "Did you work it out?"

Sherlock sighed and rolled back, his eyes fluttering shut. "Of course."

I bit the inside of my cheeks. "And?"

"You don't like people." He told me bluntly. I pondered vaguely whether I really wanted to hear the rest of what he had to say. Whether I really wanted to listen to my very soul being teased elegantly from his lips. But I would listen. How could I not? "In your mind there lies a barrier between you and the rest of the world. You see them. You know them. But you don't feel them in the same way they feel each other. They're outside your bubble of emotions. And, most of all, they _bore_ you. You're coping mechanism is to focus on one thing, to fully absorb yourself in it, so that the rest of the world doesn't intrude on your thoughts. When you were younger the clear option for this was drugs. Now you use your work as an excuse to not interact. You think that you're scared of intimacy, but you're not. You genuinely don't care. Although we're blatantly different in some respects, we have our similarities. So, in answer to your question, Melanie, I was interested in you for exactly the same reason as you're interested in me."

His eyes popped open and he peered at me, a small smile dancing on his lips.

"You're not the same as everyone else."

My mouth suddenly felt rather dry. How could he have possibly deduced all of that in the short time we had known each other? Even my family didn't know all of it. It was so personal. So private. And he had seen it all, without me realising at all what he was doing.

I took a deep breath and looked away, not able to stare into those knowing eyes any longer. I needed to collect myself. It wasn't proper to show such weakness, especially when around a man like Sherlock Holmes.

"Err… what…" I managed out, still trying to reorganise my thoughts into something a bit clearer, "What do I do after all this is over, then?"

"Could you really be happy going back to how your life was before?"

I turned my head upwards, watching as the orange glow from my lighter flickered across the ceiling, creating strange shapes and forms.

Ever since this mess had started, ever since I had been caught in that godforsaken house by the police, I had been wishing and dreaming about my ordinary life. A nice cup of tea while watching some only ok TV show. Trying to unscramble the perplexing notes left by the new interns while sitting in my comfy office. Hanging out with Becky, just talking and laughing.

Even now, as I sat trapped in a dark and cold room with only an egotistical sociopath for company, waiting for a deranged murderer to come find us again, I couldn't deny it; those things, all of them so comforting and safe, were just plain _boring_.

I shifted my gaze back onto Sherlock and frowned.

"You do know I don't love you, right?" I asked cautiously.

Sherlock broke into a grin. "Naturally. And may I add that I don't love you either?"

A small chuckle escaped my mouth. "Of course."

Something odd was happening. I was sure there had been more space between our faces before now. And the gap seemed to be lessening all the time.

My eye-line wandered merrily down to his lips, my hand brushing several dark strands backwards.

"You know," I whispered when there was less than three inches between our lips, "In the movies this is the part where the door suddenly bursts open, ruining all traces of a romantic moment."

A wicked smile crept onto Sherlock's face. "Somehow, I hope that won't happen here."

I smirked in return.

"_Somehow_, so do I."

* * *

_Wow, another long one for you there, with lots of Sherlock. They'll be more action in the next one, I promise._

_Thanks to ScreamsOnScreen, Vilentiel and Gublerite13 for reviewing the last chap! You guys rock! The rest of you can GO TO HELL! _

_I joke, honest. But maybe you could review this one? Pretty please? _

_Oh and I love Alexander Skarsgard, but Melanie likes Viggo Mortensen more, because he's not too bad now, is he?_


	19. Intimidation

**Nineteen**  
_**Intimidation **_

I collapsed back against the wall, my heart rate through the roof and my breathing all over the shot.

"Never done that before." I managed to force out of my distraught lungs.

Sherlock was already standing up straight, doing up the final button on his shirt and brushing the creases out of his suit. I rolled my head back and shut my eyes. If I wasn't sleepy before, then I certainly was now.

"Put your top on."

I murmured a response but otherwise ignored Sherlock's command. What was the point? No one was here except for us.

"Melanie, top on, now."

With great effort, I cracked open an eye. "Why?"

I blinked a few times, raising an arm and rubbing my eyes sleepily. It was difficult to see in this orange light, but what I could see made no sense. Sherlock was standing up against the sealed door, his ear pressed firmly against it.

"They're back." He told me calmly. So calmly, in fact, that at first I didn't recognise what he was saying. Then it clicked. My face dropped, I stood and snatched up my silky taupe top from amongst the office supplies cluttering the desk.

"Hang on, wh-"

Sherlock immediately hushed me and continued to listen at the door. I slipped on my top as I, as quietly as I could, made my way over to Sherlock. If there was someone dangerous outside that door, then I wanted to be as close to my bodyguard as possible.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock muttered to himself, not concealing the creases in his forehead at all. I could hear it too now – the quiet scraping. Then suddenly it stopped and a new sound took over.

"I know that hissing." Sherlock said quietly, moving away from the door and shaking his head. "I just can't remember where from."

If I had been watching him, I would have noticed how frustrated he was, not necessarily at the situation, but more at himself for not being to explain something. But I wasn't watching him. I was listening at the door. I couldn't hear anything apart from that very faint, almost unidentifiable, hissing sound, but something else was catching my attention.

"What's that smell?" I pondered out loud, more curious than worried. It was odd, and barely noticeable, but kind of nice. The air was becoming very slightly sweet. For some reason it reminded me of the dentist's. "Can you smell that, Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't answer, but I could hear him pacing the length of the room again.

I looked down at my fingers. A very strange and familiar feeling was washing over them, but it was a feeling I hadn't felt in years. They were tingling. Not in a pins and needles way – it was somewhat pleasant. And they were getting warm. Nice and toasty, starting in my chest and working its way around my body.

"Sherlock!" I let out in a sudden panic. This feeling was not good. I knew this feeling, and I didn't get how I could be experiencing it now.

Sherlock sighed and looked at me. "What is it?"

That wasn't right. He had stopped so that he could give me the full power of that icy glare. Then why could I still hear pacing? I raised a hand and rubbed my forehead. I felt light-headed. I leant back against the door for support.

I vaguely noticed that Sherlock was now in front of me, shaking me by the shoulders, but to be honest I didn't care. It was just so ridiculous. Everything was. And that was alright. It was more than alright – it was great!

I let out a small giggle, my eyes beginning to feel oddly heavy. I could still hear Sherlock pacing inside my skull. It didn't matter though. It was all just-

_Thump_

* * *

When I woke up it was all black.

I could remember being in the office. I could remember the smell. I could even remember the rhythmic pacing sound.

But I couldn't remember why.

Something was wrong. I knew that much. Something was desperately wrong.

I forced open one eye, and then another, and found myself blinking at the sudden onslaught of light. It hadn't been that light before. It had been dark, with a solitarily hazy glow emanating from my lighter. Now the entire room was burning in a yellow shine.

My vision wasn't blurry, but it was strange. It was as if everything was at some level above me. I was an idiot. Even the stapler on the desk contained more intelligence than me. My brain was shutting off.

I turned my head further around, to inspect the highly intellectual waste paper bin in the corner. Something else immediately caught my attention.

I wasn't alone.

There, slumped against the wall, looking slightly worse for wear, was an unconscious John. His head was lolling to the side, allowing me to get a nice view of a large and beastly looking wound on his temple. My first thought was panic. Was he dead? There was so much blood surrounding that wound. But that didn't make sense. I could see his chest gently rising and falling. He was still breathing.

That was good.

I very slowly rotated my head, wanting to find the source of that strange light. I had to hold in the gasp that threatened its way forth.

There were candles everywhere, covering every surface of the cramped office. They each radiated with a subtle blush of yellow light, causing the room to look as if it had been infected with fairies. But there was something else. The surfaces were shining, not just with the usual glow of candlelight, but with the odd reflective quality things got when they were soaked.

All of them.

Including the chair in the centre of the room and its occupant.

Sherlock was awake. And he looked unharmed. His face was one of his usual impassion. I didn't get how he could look like that when something was so obviously wrong.

He wasn't just sitting in the chair, he was tied to it. His ankles were strapped with some thin dark strip to the octahedral base. His arms were being held back, and although I couldn't see his wrists, I was pretty certain they were secured to the back of the chair somehow. He wasn't even trying to escape.

I tried to move, to go to and free him, but found it was mysteriously difficult.

I looked down and realised what those thin dark strips were.

Cable ties.

I was sat against the wall, my knees raised in front of me, and both my ankles and wrists were fastened tightly together. The movement I had made was small, but even that made the plastic dig painfully into my flesh. Frankly, I was surprised my fingers weren't turning blue. Any attempt to snap the cord by force would surely cause a whirlpool of trouble, especially seeing as they were placed so safely over such lovely large blue arteries.

Sherlock was facing me. He must have noticed I was awake. Then why wasn't he looking at me? Why didn't he say anything to reassure me that things were going to be ok? Because things were, weren't they? They had to be.

"You know you're lucky my son's a dentist and not an exterminator."

My head swept around at the high-pitched voice. My eyes widened as I saw who it belonged to. I had been expecting some thuggish skinhead with tattoos and possibly a gold tooth. What I had not been expecting was a friendly, fresh-faced middle-aged woman with long, blonde hair tied up neatly at the back of her head. Her nose was a little bit too big for her face, but apart from that she was positively pretty. Her eyes were glinting brightly and her teeth were all perfectly straight and white. I did not like that. Not the normality, of course, but the fact that I could see them so clearly. Her grin had a manic edge to it which sent a shiver down my back.

But more than that, she reminded me faintly of my own mother.

"But it's your own fault, you know." She continued pleasantly, stepping towards a far too calm Sherlock. I don't think she realised I was awake. "Your own fault, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Your own damn fault with your snooping and prying. You had to interfere of course. You just _had to_."

She spat the last two words with such venom that I almost gave myself away with a squeal. That was not like my mother. And I was grateful for it.

"But you won't be prying anymore, will you, Mr. Holmes?" she had leaned forwards and placed a hand on either side of the chair, so that her face wasn't three inches away from Sherlock's. "Not after this. You won't be doing anything much. And the world will be a better place for it."

"I don't think there's a need to call me Mr. Holmes, Victoria. Sherlock will suffice quite well."

I could not believe how easily Sherlock was taking this. If it had been me in that chair, I would have been crying and screaming and begging for dear life.

"You'll call me Miss Peterson!" The woman, Victoria Peterson apparently, barked. "And I'll call you whatever the hell I like!"

She stepped away from him, muttering something under her breath. Peterson? Was she related to the victim? I suddenly remembered something Sherlock had told me. The aunt! This clearly disturbed, whispering, waving her arms at invisible flies around her face, woman was Samuel Peterson's aunt!

But that meant she was the murderer.

Oh, shit.

"_I know!_" Victoria abruptly yelled into thin air, as if she was arguing with some unseen accomplice. She ran back to Sherlock, her face even closer to his this time, giving me a lovely view of her back. "You know, don't you, Mr. Holmes? You know everything. I know you do! I can see it! Well, you then know what has to happen, don't you? I'm not going to prison. I'm not owning up to this. It'll be your fault, though. All your stupid prying fault! We're only burning because of you! You made me! It was you who started the fire!"

My eyes widened as I registered her words.

Oh, God, no.

The candles. The sheen across the furniture. The liquid.

And now I spotted them. What I should have spotted from the very beginning. What Sherlock surely had.

The jerry cans standing proudly in the corner beside the door.

She was going to burn us alive.

"That would be a bit tricky when I'm tied up like this." Sherlock answered. "Unless you plan on having me light a match with my mouth."

I looked around desperately. I needed to do something, anything. Just something to get me free. And what then? Would I have the courage to hit Victoria over the head? Or would I freeze just like I did at the circus?

Victoria was ignoring Sherlock; she was too busy snatching invisible objects out of the air.

"I expect you want to know why, though, don't you?" she asked, her head jerking about as if following something flying around her. "Why I did it? _Why he forced me to do it_?"

"Not particularly. It's painfully obvious."

Damn it, Sherlock! Why couldn't you just play along and keep her talking for a while? Then maybe I could come up with a plan. It wouldn't be a good plan, for sure, but it would be better than the nothing floating inside my head presently.

"_He deserved it_!" She screamed frantically. "My lousy, good-for-nothing nephew bloody deserved it!"

"No, he didn't."

"_Yes, he did_!" Victoria shouted straight into Sherlock's face. "He was a liar and a sneak! And I caught him in the act! I caught him befouling our name! I caught him spitting in the face of our very Lord!"

"I thought you caught him spitting on something else entirely."

That was apparently enough for Victoria. Her hand whipped out of nowhere and struck Sherlock's cheek with so much force that his face was knocked violently to the side. I winced for him.

I didn't get what Sherlock meant by that last comment, but I knew it must have been bad.

"_He… was… not… gay!"_

And I suddenly understood.

"Yes, yes," Sherlock said in a bored drone. "It was just the devil inside him, or whatever you're using as an excuse. You turn up at his house, wanting to return his suit you had gotten dry-cleaned, get no answer so decided to use the spare key to drop it off before leaving. You get yourself a drink before all the lights go out and you hear scuffling noises coming from upstairs. You grab the letter opener for protection, using your torch to make your way to the bedroom where the noises are coming from, burst in and see your darling little nephew involved in some rather risqué activities with another man. You fly into a rage and stab him." He paused and sighed. "It's all so terribly mundane."

I blinked.

_That_ was mundane?

Who the hell stabs their nephew for being gay? That was outrageous!

"_It was his fault!"_

Then again, this entire woman was slightly outrageous.

"What I haven't yet proved, however," Sherlock continued as if the lady before him wasn't currently clutching at her head and jolting about hysterically, "Is who it was that called Melanie."

"_Who the hell is Melanie?"_

I could see Sherlock's smile from where I was. "That's what I thought."

What did he think? Who was it that called me? Who in God's name framed me for this lady's murder if not her? I needed to know! _Why wasn't Sherlock telling me?_

"Shut up!" Victoria shouted at a spot above her right shoulder. "I didn't do it! It wasn't… I didn't… Sammy…"

I jumped as she screamed, falling to her knees in front of me, just out of reach.

My breath caught in my throat. She had lifted her right hand off of her head and dug it into her pocket. A second later it was raised up in the air, shaking wildly. I was shocked at seeing what she held in it.

My lighter.

My lovely, frightfully expensive Zippo.

And she was going to light it.

We were all going to burn.

My head snapped around, searching blindly for something that would help. John was waking up beside me, groaning and groggily looking around, a strange sheen over his eyes. I turned away, pleading with my eyes for Sherlock's advice. His face didn't help my panic.

He was worried.

My breathing was becoming erratic. Adrenaline was being pumped into my veins. My entire body was shaking.

I couldn't die like this, I just couldn't!

"It…" Victoria sobbed quietly. "It was his fault."

My mind was pummelling into overdrive. Everything was going wonderfully blurry.

The shot echoed in my ears.

* * *

_Sorry, another annoying cliff-hanger. _

_Thanks for all the reviews guys! I do love you all, even if you don't review._

_Ok, so some of you already know this, but I'm writing up any scenes from this which I think deserve an 'M' rating (because of dark or sexual themes) and collecting them into another story titled _The Game That We Play_. So far it contains explicit drug abuse and a nice helping of Sherlock smut. None of the scenes are necessary for this fic to work, but I think they add a bit more depth to Melanie's character._

_Check it out if you dare!_

_... only after reviewing, of course._


	20. Inflammable

**Twenty**  
_**Inflammable**_

The shot echoed in my ears.

My unlit lighter clattered to the floor.

There was Victoria Peterson, kneeling in front of me, her whole body frozen for some unknown reason. And a small dark hole in the back of her head, seeping thick red liquid.

Her blonde hair was splattered with it, sluggishly dripping down to her back.

She fell forwards, unnaturally slowly, until her face struck the carpet with a thud.

I didn't understand.

Wh… why did she do that?

Time was slowing down for me. Nothing was making sense anymore. I found I couldn't blink. My eyes were fixed upon the inanimate woman slumped before me. The carpet around her head was becoming tinged with red, as the liquid seeped into its fibres in agonizing slow motion.

Why weren't we burning?

My hands were oddly heavy. I looked at them, perched as they were on my knees.

Any thoughts I had quickly evaporated.

What…

_What_?

I had the vague knowledge that I could hear someone's voice, but it was so distorted and distant. I couldn't make it out. I didn't want to.

Something had happened. Something bad.

She was going to kill us all. She had the weapon in her grasp and wasn't hesitating. There was going to be flames and screaming. We were going to die.

I had panicked. I had grasped about for anything to help.

But when… when had I picked up John's gun?

There were more noises now. More vague reverberations and deep clunks. I had no idea where they were coming from. I had no intention of finding out. I sat, no breath leaving my lungs, staring at the gun in my hands.

Had I fired it? In my state of horror, had I seen it in John's waistband and grabbed for it? Why?

The noises were getting louder now; some of them were coming from nearby. The wall I was leaning against was trembling slightly.

The gun slipped out of my grasp and fell to the floor.

I watched it, everything else tuned out in my mind. There was a crash. I recognised that somewhere in the back of my brain, but I didn't look up. I didn't move.

Something was touching my shoulder now. Someone was placing themselves beside me, their form nothing but a black shape. My wrists were being handled. Something cold was placed against them. They were talking to me, whoever it was. Not just talking – shouting. Why were they doing that?

Couldn't they see the gun in front of me? Didn't they realise the significance? And who was that lying on the floor? Why was their head leaking?

I gasped suddenly.

_What had I done?_

* * *

The smoke filled my lungs as I sucked greedily on the cigarette in my slightly quivering hand. Sod Sherlock and his cravings. Sod my realisation that since I had met him my smoking habits had diminished substantially. I didn't care anymore. By God, I needed a fag. And one quitting sociopath wasn't going to stop me.

I sat on the edge of the ambulance, my eyes fixed on the grotty surface of the road before me.

People were buzzing around me. Police. Clearing up my mess.

Sherlock had noticed, hadn't he? That's why he wasn't panicking in that chair. Why hadn't I? Had I become so accustomed over one solitary day to the extra weight around my wrist that I didn't even notice the tracing device's absence? She had cut it off, probably so that she could strap the cable tie on. She hadn't realised that cutting the band would send a signal to the police.

_She_. Why did I keep calling her that? She had a name.

Victoria.

Maybe Vicky to her loved ones.

I closed my eyes, my shivering increasing somewhat.

Cut it out, Melanie. She was going to kill us. I had no choice.

God, now I was even sounding like her.

I opened my eyes and looked up. Another ambulance had arrived shortly after the police had found us. John was currently inside it, getting his head wound seen to. Police in tidy black uniforms were running in and out of the store, collecting evidence and whatever else it was that they did. Some were wearing those white plastic cover alls to prevent contaminating the crime scene. I didn't see the point. It was pretty clear what had happened up in that room.

Sherlock was talking to Lestrade, whom had been one of the first officers on the scene apparently, explaining everything to the tired-looking detective. Every now and then his head would turn to me, then he would spot I was looking and turn away embarrassed.

I finished my cigarette and stubbed it out under the ball of my foot. Sherlock ended his conversation with Lestrade and started towards me. He had somehow managed to retrieve his coat and scarf from the crime scene, and I almost cringed as I saw them still glistening with petrol. As if the smell from my own clothes wasn't enough to make me light-headed.

He stopped a foot away from me, peering at me with a curious gaze.

I frowned.

"Why do they keep putting this blanket around me?" I asked, yet again shrugging the damned pink fluffy thing off of my shoulders.

I spotted the small smile tugging at Sherlock's lips. "It's for the shock."

I raised an eyebrow. "Because psychological shock makes me… _cold_?"

Sherlock chuckled lightly and took a seat next to me. There was an odd expression on his face, the same one he got when trying to work out a particularly difficult problem. After a good minute of silence (and the paramedics shoving the blanket over me again) he finally spoke.

"How are you?"

"I'm-" I paused and bit my bottom lip, uncertain on how to answer that. I shook my head a fraction and shrugged. "I'm still here."

"Well, obviously."

I smiled and whacked him on the arm. At least he was still the same arrogant, annoying man that he always was.

"Sherlock," I said becoming serious again, "What's going to happen to me? I mean, I… I did that thing."

"It was self-defence." He answered calmly, now inspecting the individual members of the crowd milling around. "You'll have to appear in court, but no one can argue it wasn't reasonable and necessary force. You won't be charged with anything."

I nodded, grateful that Sherlock hadn't actually said the word. I don't think I could face that yet. I wasn't a- Well, I wasn't someone who committed that crime. I would have to face it soon, I knew that. But not now. Later.

Sherlock suddenly stood. "I'm going to see how John is doing. You stay here."

Umm… alright? I didn't get to voice any form of complaint or agreement at his order however, as Sherlock was already half way over to the other ambulance. I sighed. What was I going to do with that man?

"Never thought I'd see the day the freak got himself a girlfriend."

My head popped up. A woman was standing opposite me, smartly-dressed and inquisitive. I frowned, not understanding what she meant. She nodded her head to where Sherlock was currently attempting to get onto John's ambulance while the paramedics kept trying to get him to leave. I almost laughed at the sight, before turning back to the woman. I thought I recognised her from somewhere, maybe Scotland Yard or one of the other crime scenes, but didn't think I had actually spoken to her before now.

"Oh, I'm not his girlfriend." I told her, totally sweeping the whole freak thing to one side. Tons of people would call Sherlock a freak. Hell, even I thought of him as one sometimes. But that didn't mean he was a bad person.

"Really?" the woman asked doubtfully. I nodded. "Then I guess this isn't yours, after all?" She pulled something out of her bag and let me see it. I choked. She smiled. "Thought you'd rather have it back than having a bunch of male police officers perving over it."

"Thanks." I said gratefully, taking the lacy black bra from her and swiftly hiding it in my handbag. "Still not his girlfriend, though."

"Good, cause I think I should warn you he's a bit screwed up."

I raised my eyebrows, trying not to show any other emotions. "How so?"

The woman crossed her arms. "Well, for one thing he's enjoying this. You've seen his face. He's having fun."

I nodded. "I know."

"And you're ok with that?" she asked sceptically, narrowing her eyes, as if she was starting to think that maybe I too was a bit screwed up. But then again, I kind of was. Especially after the night I was having.

I shrugged. "Everyone has a hobby. Mine's squash."

The woman opened her mouth to say something, but then shut it again. It was clear now that she thought I had mental issues. Hopefully she thought it was just the shock. The pink blanket was proof that I was suffering from that.

We were both distracted by a loud familiar voice.

"Sherlock, they haven't finished my stitches yet!"

We turned. My eyes widened. Sherlock was dragging John by the arm towards us. John was clutching his head, looking rather pissed off.

"Finish them at home." Sherlock responded plainly.

"I can't finish my own stitches!"

Sherlock was ignoring his flatmate's squirming. "Why not? You're a doctor."

"But- but-"

Sherlock came to a halt in front of us, eyeing the unnamed woman warily. "What are you doing here, Donovan?"

John tried to make his escape, but Sherlock grabbed his wrist before he had time to get far enough away. Cautiously, I looked at his head. Most of the blood had been cleared away, but that didn't help the fact that a needle was still swinging lazily from the half-finished sutures. I wondered what Sherlock had done to the paramedics. Nothing good, I was betting.

"Oh relax," Donovan (I thought that's what Sherlock had said) waved a hand through the air, "I was just returning something to Melanie, here."

"Good." Sherlock said bluntly. "Now go away."

Donovan scoffed. "Trust me I will." She started heading back to the doors of the store, but stopped and turned. "Oh, and Melanie, Lestrade wanted me to tell you he'll be round to take your statement tomorrow."

A nodded and gave her a feeble smile. I was not looking forward to that. My whole defence mechanism at the moment was blocking out the events of the past hour completely. Recounting it would not be fun. I supposed I should have been grateful that they weren't asking me to do it now down at the station. I'd thank Sherlock for that later.

"We're leaving." Sherlock spoke up.

"What about John's stitches?" I asked.

"Thank you! See, Sherlock, normal people get- Oh, stop sulking – it'll only take a minute."

* * *

The taxi ride back to Baker Street was quiet. Sherlock explained to John the whole story in less than three minutes, excluding of course anything that would make me feel somewhat uncomfortable. John caught on quickly. He even pointed out that Daniel Waters must have been threatened by Victoria after being found with her nephew, and that he preferred to take his own life after his lover's had been taken so violently, rather than wait for Victoria to find him.

He had even understood why Victoria had killed Samuel. It wasn't to do with him being gay. It was to do with him lying to her for all these years. Victoria hadn't always been insane. In a way, it was her actions that pushed her over the edge.

But before that, before she had become the raving loony, she had been an average woman, with friends and family who loved her.

And I-

I had-

I still couldn't even think it.

I didn't know why I was heading back to Baker Street with them. I didn't live there. But I did know that I appreciated it. I really didn't want to be stuck alone in my apartment tonight.

Sherlock probably wasn't even thinking about it, but John seemed to understand. Whenever I caught his eyes in the cab, I didn't fail in noticing the almost pitying expression on his face. Of course, he would know what it was like.

As soon as I stepped into the flat, I started heading upstairs, not saying a word to either of them.

Sherlock made to follow me, but I was grateful for John's quiet words to him. "Give her some space, alright? Just for tonight."

I didn't want to be completely alone, but I also didn't want to talk to anyone – even Sherlock with his detachment and composure.

I sighed as I reached the bedroom door, turning the handle to allow me entry.

At least it was over now.

Wasn't it?

* * *

_Erm, I was going to say something, but I've forgotten what._

_Oh well. _

_Reviews would be nice as always._


	21. Inquiries

_Sorry for the wait, but as some of you know I've been catching up _The Game That We Play_ to this fic. _

_Just to let you know there's a small chapter up there which comes in between this and the last one. It's not actually graphic and could easily get away with a T rating, but the voice has so much angst that it didn't fit with this. It's not crucial, but there may be a slight jump for those who haven't read it._

* * *

**Twenty** **One**  
_**Inquiries **_

It was mid-morning by the time I woke up.

My eyes had creaked open, but I found they didn't have to adjust to the light. The curtains were still closed, as they always were in this apartment, and the hazy glow of whatever little sunlight peeked through the dull clouds was swallowed up, meaning that the entire room was oddly dark.

To be honest I probably could have slept longer – my bones certainly felt like it as I uncurled myself stiffly from the sofa – if it hadn't been for one important thing.

Or one important man.

Who was currently sitting in an armchair, scratching away at his violin causing sounds like bloody foxes rutting to swamp the entire flat.

Consideration was obviously not Sherlock Holmes' middle name.

"Sherlock, I thought I told you to let her sleep!"

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes dopily and swivelled around. John was standing at the bottom of the stairs, half-way through pulling a stripy jumper over his head, and definitely not looking amused. Sherlock continued in his experiment to see how long it would be before our ears started bleeding. I sighed and rubbed my head, trying to block out the god awful sound. He _could_ play nicely. I had heard him. Then why, oh, why was he trying to kill all the poor dogs in the surrounding area?

"_Sherlock_!" John hissed as he stomped up to the armchair and attempted to grab the violin from Sherlock's grasp. Sherlock simply leaned out of the way, high screeching notes still echoing from the instrument. John tried to grab it again. Sherlock ducked. It would have actually been quite funny to watch, especially since John had yet to pull his other arm into the jumper, except for the noise.

"_Quiet!"_ I finally yelled, not at all pleased about the migraine building in my left temple.

They both shut up.

I sighed and began tugging my hair out of the now extremely messy bun. "Thank you."

John whacked Sherlock on the arm. "I told you not to wake her."

"She's already slept for over six hours and eighteen minutes. That's plenty of rest."

John at last reached his other arm through the sleeve and pulled the jumper on properly. He gave Sherlock a patronizing glance before heading into the kitchen. "No, Sherlock, the recommended amount of sleep someone should get is eight hours."

Sherlock scoffed and thankfully placed his violin on the cluttered table beside his chair. "Exactly. She's already had over three quarters of that time and it's only Tuesday."

I heard the smash as John actually dropped the mug he was holding. "I meant per day!"

Sherlock frowned. "Don't be ridiculous. Why on earth would anyone need eight hours sleep in one night?"

I shut my eyes tightly. This was going to turn into another argument, wasn't it? And that would only lead to more dying cat noises and angry yelling. Oh, my poor head.

"Well, while you ma-"

"What's the time?" I interrupted, wanting desperately to change the subject and avoid having Sherlock start stabbing things with that sword still hidden behind the desk.

"Almost ten."

I nodded vaguely at John in recognition. Then I actually heard it.

"Oh my God, I'm meant to be at work, aren't I? Damn and I really could do with a day off and having work on top of everything just seems li-"

"Woah, there, Melanie." John stopped my ramblings. "I already rang them this morning for you – Sherlock gave me the number. Told them you've got a bad case of flu, so don't worry."

I blinked, bringing my head out of my hands. "Oh… Thanks."

"No problem. It was Sherlock who reminded me anyway."

"No, I told you we needed to wake her up or she'd be late for work."

"Because you're Mr. Caring are-" John paused as he looked down at the desk he was standing in front of. He flicked over a few papers. "Where's my laptop?"

Sherlock dug his phone out of his pocket and started typing away, replying casually as he did. "In the airing cupboard."

"Why is it in… What have you been doing to my…" It took several seconds for John to leap his way up the stairs again. When he did no one within a quarter mile perimeter could deny the annoyance in his cry. "_Sherlock, why apple sauce?_"

My chest shook with the shallow laugh that came forth. I eyed Sherlock curiously. "An experiment?"

Sherlock continued playing about on his phone. "Naturally."

I raised my eyebrows. "Involving apple sauce?"

A corner of his lips tugged upwards. "Certain substances were necessary."

Oh, goody. I supposed I had to be grateful that it was John's computer and not mine. Although, I guess that that was purely down to luck and the fact that John's was far closer than my flat. If it hadn't been I don't know what would have happened. I would have been seriously pissed off, that was for sure.

I slumped back into the couch and sighed. This was exactly what I needed.

A day of distractions.

And that was the moment when the doorbell rang repeatedly downstairs. I turned my head in surprise to look at the door to the stairway. Sherlock didn't even move.

"Mrs. Hudson!" he simply called, his voice portraying every part of his command. I shook my head. Mrs. Hudson was getting on a bit; the least Sherlock could do for her was answer the bloody door every now and then.

"Yes, yes, I know!" I heard the friendly old reply come from downstairs, even over the still ringing doorbell. Who the hell wanted to get into this apartment so badly? Lestrade, maybe? Or one of Sherlock's enemies wanting revenge?

God, my life was turning into a comic book.

And the scary thing was, I wasn't scared.

"Hel- Excuse me, young man! Wait one sec-" I stood up, not liking the rise in Mrs. Hudson's tone or the thudding hurried footsteps approaching us. I looked at Sherlock. He didn't seem worried at all. But then, he could have some crazy lady yelling in his face about killing him and he remained as cool as a penguin.

My hands subconsciously balled into fists as I stared at the door expectantly.

Finally, it burst open.

"_Why the hell aren't you answering your phone?"_

My eyes widened.

"Lu-" I began stammering out, "Lucas?"

"Yes, me!"

There, in the doorway, stood the tall, muscular figure of my brother. He was dressed for the weather, but I had an odd feeling that the red across the bridge of his nose was not solely down to the cold. Lucas was never one for controlling his temper.

Mrs. Hudson walked into the room behind him, a finger wagging in his direction. "Now, you look here-"

"Don't worry, Mrs. Hudson." I told her reassuringly, seeing how her eyes kept darting to the phone in her hand as if contemplating whether to call the police or not. "This is Lucas, my brother. Sorry about him being a jerk."

"I'm only being a jerk because _someone_ hasn't answered any calls for over twenty four hours!"

"Your brother?" Mrs. Hudson ignored my raging sibling. I suddenly felt a broad admiration for her. She had put up with Sherlock's moods for so long now and she knew how to handle them. Mainly by paying them no attention whatsoever. "Well, now you mention it, I do see the family resemblance. Do you want me to go fetch you some tea and biscuits? Only this once mind. I'm not your housekeeper."

"I mean, seriously, Annie! I've been trying to contact you since yesterday morning!"

I choose to follow Mrs. Hudson's lead and take no notice of Lucas at all. "No, thanks, Mrs. Hudson. We're fine."

"Oh, are we now? Then I-"

"Ok, dear. Well, I'll be downstairs if you need anything."

"Right, Annie, you're going to-"

"Thanks." I grinned widely at Mrs. Hudson, who did the same before backing out of the door and returning downstairs. At last I looked at Lucas. One of his eyebrows was twitching dangerously. I crossed my arms. "What's wrong?"

He took a deep breath as if attempting to calm himself down. I thought that it must have worked a little bit since he wasn't actually yelling the next question. "Why aren't you answering your phone?"

I rolled my eyes. God, was he a drama queen or what. "I haven't turned it back on yet since I plugged it in to charge."

"Since yesterday morning?" he asked sceptically. I shrugged.

"Yeah. Well, I didn't actually get a chance to charge it until last night, so…" I stopped as I turned my head to look at the wall socket where I had plugged in my mobile yesterday evening. There was something odd about it. "Where's my phone?"

It had vanished. Sure, the orange scented cable was still there, and the switch was still showing the little red bar to say it was on, but there was nothing else.

What had Sherlock done to my phone?

Had it befallen the same fate as John's laptop? Or had it already been lost in this apartment of chaos? Anything you left here for more than an hour was quickly swallowed up by a bizarre myriad of clutter and knick-knacks. Maybe someone had just taken it out of the charger and left in on the table, where it was now hidden by books on guns and test tubes containing fibres and all sorts of rubbish. I hoped so. Otherwise Sherlock would pay.

"Why'd you get so worried about me not picking up?" I muttered as I scattered some of the objects on the desk nearest me, hoping to unearth my lovely phone.

A touch of anger returned to Lucas' voice. "Because when I rang your work they said you weren't there and hadn't been in contact with them, but you didn't answer your home phone either, so I thought you might be ill in bed or something, which was confirmed today by your office telling me you had the flu, but when I went around to your flat to make sure you were alright, the only person there was a damn police officer spouting some nonsense about making sure you didn't run off but that I could find you here!"

I immediately stopped rummaging and froze. "There's a police officer at my apartment?"

"Uh, yeah." Lucas made it perfectly clear that that point was not funny.

"And they knew I was here?"

"Yeah."

I spun around to face Sherlock, who by now seemed to be trying to balance a twenty pence coin on top of a pencil. "Sherlock, are the police _following_ me?"

The twenty pence dropped off and rolled away under the other armchair.

"Don't be so naïve, Melanie. Of course the police are following you. Even _they_ aren't ignorant enough to let a suspect run around care free." He told me while flicking the pencil into the air and catching it again. Lucas seemed to have only just noticed there was someone else in the room. He kept on glancing between me and Sherlock. "But I must say they've been far more conspicuous than the others. They should really improve their surveillance training."

One word of that stood out to me. "_Others_? You mean they are _more_ people watching me? _Who_?"

"I suppose you'll find out soon enough."

Oh, you damn snotbucket of a man. Maybe for once you could actually answer one of my questions properly! Would that be too much to ask?

"Sherlock, who the hell is following me?"

"Hang on," Lucas spoke up, sounding rather confused. I couldn't blame him. "_This_ is Sherlock?"

I sighed. "Yes, yes, this is Sherlock Holmes. I would introduce you but there's really no point." I slumped down on the sofa again, too tired to be bothered with my brother's protectiveness or Sherlock's annoying personality. I waved a hand through the air. "You'll see why in a minute."

"Huh?"

Sherlock answered his question with another. "Year Twelve or Thirteen?"

Well, that wasn't really much of an answer. Lucas stared at him oddly. "I'm sorry?"

"Your tutor group – Year Twelve or Thirteen?"

"How did…" he made out quietly, turning to me accusingly, "Did you tell…"

"Nope." I answered plainly, shaking my head once. "Never even told him your name."

"But then…"

Sherlock snorted and gave Lucas an almost pitying look. "Oh, please. It's painfully obvious you're a PE teacher. Your clothes are all reasonably stylish except for your trainers which are entirely practical. Your skin's well-worn suggesting you spend a lot of time outdoors, but there's a callous on the middle finger of your right hand meaning you write a lot. I already know from Melanie's habits that you're busy most of the time and work long hours. And yet you manage to have time off in the middle of a working week, that just so happens to be part of the Easter holidays. However, there's a stain on your jacket that is either caused by iodine monochloride or liquid bromine – not something the average PE teacher would handle, unless, of course, he spends time in one of the school laboratories. The only reason that could be is if he was a form tutor of a class whose room was a science lab, and the only years that usually are allowed to be in the laboratories without a science teacher present is those in the Sixth Form. So… Year Twelve or Thirteen?"

Lucas looked stunned.

He wasn't even blinking.

"Thir- Thirteen."

Sherlock turned and picked up his phone again. "Thought as much."

Lucas shook his head from side to side, presumably to clear his thoughts. He then stumbled over to the couch and collapsed next to me. I noticed that he still hadn't blinked. I patted him on the arm knowingly. Yeah, Sherlock tended to do that to you.

"Annie, your boyfriend's weird."

_Weird_ wasn't the half of it.

"Not his girlfriend." I dismissed, perusing over the bookshelves on the other side of the room to see if I could spot my phone.

"Right." he drawled out. I turned back to my brother. He had cocked an eyebrow at me, his expression one of pure disbelief. "Even though you've obviously spent the night here, are perfectly happy with him seeing you without any makeup on and are currently dressed in his underwear. And that's not even mentioning how you spent an entire drunken night telling me how amazing he is in bed."

If I had been drinking anything I would have choked. I swear I heard a small bark of laughter come from Sherlock's direction. And when my head swept around to look at him there was a definite smirk plastered across his face.

"That, Melanie," he said calculatingly, "is an excellent observation."

I glared at him.

"Shut it."

"Exactly," Lucas added triumphantly, "and you're trying to tell me you're not his girlfriend? You're like an old married couple."

I actually laughed at this. "Lucas, Sherlock Holmes is a freakishly intelligent, murder obsessed, sociopathic genius, who can deduce anything about anyone just by looking at their fingernails! He would not make a good husband."

"I don't just look at their fingernails."

"Oh, yeah, sorry, you look at their watches too."

"No, I need t-"

"_Wait_!" Lucas shouted over us. "Did you say murder obsessed? Oh, my God, Annie, what are those photos on that wall?"

He stood up quickly, only just noticing the pictures of various corpses, crime scenes and maps over the fireplace. What could I say? My brother wasn't the most observant person in the world. But even he would eventually notice something like that.

He was starting to panic, I could see it on his face. He kept looking between me, Sherlock and the photographs, as if trying to come up with a conclusion that wasn't that his darling little sister had become a psychopathic serial killer with her boyfriend – or at least someone he was sure was her boyfriend, even if she denied it.

I was saved from explaining in the nick of time.

"Oh, don't worry. He's not a murderer." John had emerged from upstairs and was calmly standing beside Lucas, a hand patting his shoulder. "He's just some guy that runs around crimes scenes and solves them before the police do."

"_Consulting detective." _Sherlock popped in meaningfully.

Lucas still looked rather scared. John held out his hand. "I'm John Watson, by the way, Sherlock's flatmate."

Lucas ignored his hand, instead peering anxiously at the photographs on the wall. John frowned in concern. I just rolled my eyes. Lucas had a perfectly acceptable right to act this way. Heaven knows, I hadn't behaved much better on my first visit here. In fact, he was doing positively brilliantly compared to me. At least he hadn't thrown up yet.

John gave up trying to shake Lucas' hand and looked at Sherlock. "You're going to have to pay for a new computer, by the way."

It looked like Sherlock didn't hear him, but I saw the slight twitch of his fingers towards the violin.

"No, Sherlock." I told him as I would a small child. I did not want to have to buy earplugs. Sherlock grunted and lolled backwards, flinging an arm over his head as he stared at the ceiling in such a melodramatic pose that I almost confused him for a Wilde protagonist in his deepest fits of despair.

"What… Annie…" my brother began rambling slowly, his eyes fixed on a lovely shot of Samuel Peterson's dead hand, "How…"

John crossed the room and perched on the armrest of the other chair, the actual seat being too cluttered with all sorts of crap. "Who's Annie?"

Sherlock groaned, but otherwise didn't move. "Honestly, John, it might be useful once in a while to use those grey cells of yours. It's clearly Melanie's childhood nickname. I suppose because she couldn't pronounce her name properly when very young."

"So… she said _Annie_?"

"What are the last two syllables of her name, John?"

"…Oh."

"Congratulations."

I sighed, about to ask them not to talk about me as if I wasn't there, when the doorbell rang downstairs again, although this time far more politely and only once. I wondered who else I could deal with today of all days.

"It's Lestrade." Sherlock answered my thoughts again. "Come to get Melanie's statement."

I groaned loudly. I was so not in the mood for this. To be honest, I doubted I would ever be, but that was beside the point.

"Statement?" Lucas asked, finally waking up from his daze.

I really didn't want to have to go through last night's events quite yet. I still hadn't completely dealt with it in my head. Unhealthy, yes, but it was currently the more pleasant of the two options.

"Yes, for the shooting of a murderer yesterday evening."

Oh, thanks a lot, Sherlock. Now Lucas was going to start bombarding me with questions. I was hoping to tell my family when I was good and ready. Which may have been never. I hadn't quite decided yet.

"I'm sorry, _what_? Annie was there when a murderer was shot?"

Don't say it, Sherlock. Please don't say it. I stood up quickly and started pushing on Lucas' chest. "I'll explain later, sorry, so if you just g-"

"Melanie was the one who shot her."

Oh, shit.

* * *

_Ok, that was long. And I'm not really sure if it was any good or not. I know I reread the last one recently and realised how crap it was. Sorry._

_This one better? Yes? No?_


	22. Independence

**Twenty** **Two**  
_**Independence **_

My brother stood there in the centre of the room, an arm frozen half-raised before him, and his face completely blank. My hands remained on his chest, but were no longer shoving him towards the door. Lucas had stopped breathing. Mine was growing steadily more rapid as I stared at his vacant eyes, my mind not coming up with any sort of plan to get me out of this.

"It was a good shot, too, considering she had no previous experience with firearms." Sherlock's far too calm voice seemed to echo around the room. Part of me wanted to hit him, but my overwhelming nerves had apparently glued me to the spot.

Lucas' lips parted slowly. He drew in a breath in preparation of attempting to speak. But no words came out.

"Lu… Lucas?" I stumbled out quietly, causing his attention to be taken from where Sherlock was sitting and be placed instead on me. Little by little, his brows furrowed into a frown as he gazed straight into my eyes. I didn't like the look he was giving me. It was full of confusion and disbelief, but also contained a trace of something else. Fear.

"You shot someone?"

The three simple words entered my brain with a flourish, and my heart seemed to do a very uncomfortable flip in my chest as the words actually sunk in. Hearing it from someone I knew – someone who wasn't a crazed consulting detective – somehow made it real.

"I had no choice." I whispered, as if I was trying to justify the act to myself as well as my brother.

Lucas' expression didn't change, but I thought I may have caught the fleeting swirl of emotion in his stare before it vanished.

There were two loud knocks at the door, startling me away from Lucas' gaze. I stepped back and found I couldn't look at him anymore. I couldn't look at anyone.

The door creaked open and there was a deep cough.

"Morning all." I recognised Lestrade's voice. "Hope I'm not interrupting anything."

No one responded to that. I was pretty sure Lucas was still staring at me with that horrible look. John no doubt didn't know what to do. And Sherlock… Well, Sherlock was probably trying to ignore Lestrade for as long as possible.

Finally, after a good thirty seconds of silence, John spoke up. "Er," he cleared his throat uncomfortably, "no… maybe… maybe Lucas and I better go and get a coffee at Speedy's."

I blinked and looked up at John.

"Why?" came my brother's voice. His shock seemed to be evaporating and leaving a healthy dose of anger behind.

"So I could explain to you what happened while Melanie talks to Lestrade." He sounded caring, but I still managed to catch a snippet of the authoritative tone I was sure had its roots in his army days.

"No!" Lucas immediately replied. "I don't want to hear it from _you_. I want to hear it from _her_!"

I was positive he was now pointing at me, but I didn't have the strength to return his gaze. I looked down at the carpet by my feet. "Please, Luc-"

"No, Annie. I'm not leaving until you explain why the hell someone as anti-guns as you would shoot another person!"

"Maybe you should leave." Lestrade stuck in firmly.

"How many times do I have to tell you? _No!_"

My hands shot up to cover my ears at the sudden onslaught of piercing screeches. I scrunched up my eyes and glared at Sherlock, who had obviously become so annoyed at our mindless bickering that the only possible way to entertain himself was to start assaulting that violin of his. Only this time it seemed louder and more painful, if that was at all possible.

"_Shut up!"_ Lucas yelled over the din. If anything the noise rose a few extra decibels. "Alright! Alright! I'll go!"

Sherlock instantly stopped.

I sighed in relief, not only at being able to use my ears properly again – Lucas was stomping heavily to the door.

When there he turned and glared meaningfully at John.

It took him a moment to get it. "Oh, right, coffee."

Lucas held open the door as John collected his keys and jacket from the kitchen table, rolling his eyes at me before stepping out of the room.

I managed to hear my brother's frustrated words as he shut the door behind them. "You better tell me everything."

I let out a huge breath and collapsed back onto the sofa, for once completely glad for Sherlock's violin. At least now I wouldn't have to explain it all to my brother. He was way too protective of me and I was sure having him hear about how I'd been set up for murder, been arrested then released, charged around the crime scenes, almost got burnt to death by some psycho and then proceeded to kill said psycho _without even calling him_ would not make him all that happy. I just hoped John made it sound like I didn't have the opportunity to ring him.

"So," Lestrade started, a large frown across his forehead, "that was a friend of yours?"

I smiled miserably.

* * *

Telling Lestrade the entire story had not been pleasant.

At one point I had almost choked up completely, and when it came to describing my first realisations on what I had done, I found that I had to bite away several tears that were threatening to fall. It was so unlike me. I didn't cry. I didn't chew on my bottom lip as I struggled to find something to say. I didn't need to make excuses for my horrendous behaviour. That wasn't me.

But now it looked like it was. A new side of my personality had crept forwards out of nowhere and attached itself to my brain.

And I really didn't like it.

I wanted to be untroubled. I wanted to not care. I wanted to be heartless again. Why had I chosen this moment to start feeling?

Lestrade had sat there quietly, listening to my story with only a few questions interjected here and there. I was thankful for that. I felt if he had stormed around, throwing queries and unspoken accusations my way then I would have buckled. I just needed to get through it. Then maybe I could start to heal.

Sherlock hadn't spoken much either. He had found something to amuse himself with on his phone and I would have thought he wasn't even listening if it had been anyone else. But it wasn't and I was positive he was. He was probably analysing my every pause and deducing my every thought behind it. It surprised me that I didn't care about that. It even made me feel slightly more secure in myself.

Apparently Lestrade would need to consult the Crown Prosecution Service as to whether it was even worth bringing charges against me, the defence of Self Defence being so prominent. I hoped they would just let it lie. Even the idea of a possible prison sentence seemed more pleasant than the thought of having to go through my experiences again in front of an entire jury. But Sherlock told me it wouldn't come to that. Trials were expensive. They wouldn't waste the time and resources when it was so painfully obvious that I had acted out of self defence.

I so wanted him to be right.

The bus ride back to my apartment was quiet.

Lucas had barely said a word to me since returning from his conversation with John. The only time I had seen any trace of his usual self was when I announced I needed to go back to my flat to pick up some things. Then he had started complaining about how I couldn't go on my own and needed someone to accompany me. Or look after me like an infant. I wasn't a baby. I was pretty sure I could get the bus back to my flat without killing anyone else or being arrested again. But apparently not as Lucas declared himself my keeper and wouldn't leave my side as we boarded the red double-decker.

I had drummed my fingers steadily against the dirty window as I sat in a pair of John's old jeans (Sherlock's were annoying too tight, even for me – the skinny bastard) and stared out at the people and cars we passed.

Something was creeping up my spine. It had been ever since we left 221B.

I was scared.

Even my big burly brother's presence wasn't doing much to reassure me. I was struggling not to jump at every sudden noise and had to fight the urge to leap off the bus as the man behind me suddenly shouted something rather unpleasant into his phone. These people around me… I just…

Who were they?

Could they be killers in disguise? Or rapists? Or kidnappers? Were they the person who had framed me for murder?

Sherlock knew who had done it. I was certain of that. But he wasn't telling me, or Lestrade, or anyone for that matter. He was just sitting there, doing nothing as this person gallivanted around, plotting their next move against me.

But at least if I was with him, he would be able to see them coming.

The female police officer stationed outside my front door smiled at me slightly as I let myself and Lucas in. I strolled into the apartment as soon as the lock clicked open, heading straight for the bedroom.

"Annie." Lucas at last spoke up as he followed me. He leant against the door frame as I pulled open my wardrobe.

"Yeah?"

"You're going back there, aren't you?" he asked, the gentleness in his voice covered with sadness.

I dug out my gym bag from the top shelf of the closet and shaped it open. "Back where?"

I caught the movement as he crossed his arms over his chest in my peripheral vision. "Back to that place. Back to him."

I didn't pause as I collected a slouchy dress from a hanger and began to fold it up. I knew what he meant. He meant Baker Street. He meant Sherlock.

"Yes."

"Why?" he didn't sound reproachful, just concerned and genuinely interested. It was the same voice Sherlock got at one of those rare moments when he didn't understand human behaviour.

I shrugged and dumped the dress into the bag before reaching up and grabbing some opaque tights from the underwear shelf. "Because."

Lucas obviously didn't appreciate my childish answer. His voice turned sharp. "That's not a reason and you know it. You're just running on back to the guy who got you in this mess in the first place. Sorry, Annie, but right now I'm finding it a little difficult to understand your mentality. Why you'd want to-"

"_I don't want to be alone, alright?"_ I snapped, my eyes swiping around to glare at him, my hands still grasping the pair of clean pants I'd fished out of my wardrobe. Lucas seemed surprised for a moment. Then his expression instantly softened to one of dire concern.

"You could stay with me." He suggested softly, almost pleadingly, clearly already knowing the answer to that question.

I sighed, my glare vanishing as I turned back to the bag, my voice returning to its solemn state. "No. I'm sorry."

"Annie," he started gently, taking several steps towards me. I busied myself in finding a t-shirt. "He's not right in the head. You do see that, don't you? He's twisted and he'll just end up hurting you. God knows, you almost died last night because of him. You've never been one for danger, so it can't be that that's attracting you. 'Cause it is, Annie. Everything about him screams of danger. My big brother senses are tingling."

I let out a single syllable of breathy laughter. Guilt was starting to creep its way inside me. I wanted to make Lucas happy, to reassure him that I was fine, but I couldn't. "I'm sorry."

"Why do you want to go back there?"

That was it – the question I had been dreading the most. I shut my eyes and leant my forehead against the wooden frame of the closet, steadying myself.

"He… he makes me feel safe." I shook my head, the wood digging into my skull, "I know there's irony in that since before he came along my whole life was safe, but it's just how I feel. He doesn't want to protect me – 'cause let's face it, he doesn't really want to protect anyone, even himself – but he will. I don't feel that with anyone else, even you, Lucas. He stops me from being scared."

I heard Lucas' sigh from where I was. "You care about him, don't you?"

I lifted my head from the wardrobe and turned to him, frowning. I hadn't been expecting that question. To be honest, I hadn't even thought about the answer myself. I had to search for it. And when I found it, it surprised even me.

"Yes."

Lucas cocked his head at me, giving me an almost pitying glance, before nodding once and turning and leaving my bedroom. I heard him slump down onto my couch in the living room as his responded, his tone one of complete despair.

"Alright."

* * *

The bag swung from my grasp as I stood up from the seat on the bus. I had packed enough clothes to last me until Thursday at least, when I would be forced to venture out from the apartment for work, and I felt slightly more comfortable now I was back in my own garments and out of the odd combination of John's and Sherlock's.

"I'll be fine." I reassured my brother for the umpteenth time. "I'm pretty sure I can make it the hundred yards from the bus stop to the flat on my own."

Lucas gave me a fretful look but for once didn't argue. "Fine. But give me a ring later, ok?"

I forced a smile onto my face. "Yes, _mum_."

He chuckled but the hug he gave me as the bus ground to a halt was a little tighter than necessary. "Be careful."

I nodded in what I hoped was a cheerful way, before pushing past a young man in a hoodie and stepping down from the bus onto the pavement. I waved as the doors shut and Lucas drove away, not failing to spot the worry etched on his face.

I started on up the busy street, making my way determinedly to the deep red material denoting the sandwich shop I needed to get to.

I was halfway there when I noticed the large black car edging its way along behind me.

* * *

_Wahey! Cliff-hanger again._

_That was seriously too deep for me. I need comedy. There will be a bit next time, I'm sure. At least I hope so._

_Would be ever so grateful if you took the time to review._


	23. Incarnation

**Twenty** **Three**  
_**Incarnation **_

It was probably just my heightened nerves, I recognised that, but something within me began squirming. The car was so cliché – all shiny black with heavily tinted windows and not a spot of dirt. It could have been picked right out of a conspiracy movie and dropped into the real world.

And it was slinking along the road so slowly. It was lucky there weren't any cars behind it.

My footsteps quickened, despite my knowledge that it was most likely just me being a jumpy idiot. I had really seen too many films. People didn't get abducted off of busy streets in broad daylight by the most stereotypical vehicle imaginable. And even if they did, then it certainly wouldn't have been someone as ordinary as me. Those sorts of things only happened to edgy protagonists ready for action.

Mind you, after the last couple of days, nothing seemed that implausible to me anymore.

I just needed to reach 221B. Then I would feel safe, even if I was in exactly the same amount of danger as I was in now. Which was almost definitely none whatsoever.

I was panicking over the proverbial molehill.

But still, my heart appeared to appreciate the new speed and shortening distance to the apartment.

I shoved rather rudely past a few members of the public, but didn't take in any of their features, my eyes too focused on my destination and trying not to look back at the car still following. If I didn't look, I wouldn't see. And if there was anything dangerous back there, then I think I'd prefer not to see it.

Ignorance is bliss.

Fearful curiosity, however, is not.

I was only a few minutes away from the flat. If I kept to the inner edge of the pavement, using the other people like a shield as I scuffled along the row of shops, then it would be fine. My rising heart rate was stupid. There wasn't anything to be scared of. Just a car on a road. A creepy black car following me. Oh, Christ, I needed to get back to Sherlock. He would know what to do. He would instantly be able to tell who was driving and what their motives were. If only I could get back to him. Just another hundred yards or so. That was all. Nothing. And it was getting less all the ti-

I stopped.

The clacking of my heels against the pavement, instead of being drowned out by the noise of the road, ceased completely.

I watched as the ominous vehicle halted several meters in front of me, having overtaken me seconds before.

All my muscles froze.

The door to the backseat was opening. A pale hand appeared. The cuff of a dark pinstriped suit followed it.

A well dressed lady ran up to the open door, busy chatting away on her phone, said something I couldn't hear to the suited man inside and clambered in, the door shutting loudly behind her.

The car rumbled away.

Shock took hold of me for a moment, my eyes blinking as I tried to regain control of my brain. Then what happened hit me.

I could have laughed.

How could I have been so stupid?

Last night had obviously taken its toll on my mind power. Of course there was nothing to worry about. It was just a car. I saw ones like it in the city all the time belonging to the average wealthy businessman. I should change my middle name to Overreaction, if this was how I was going to continue. Stupid, stupid Melanie. Positively having a panic attack over every little thing on a normal street.

My breathing began to relax again.

Some part of me blamed Lucas for getting me so nervous in the first place with all his anxious worrying. Fear is contagious. He should have realised that.

I shook my head in mild shame, before picking up the pace once more and hurrying along towards the flat, far calmer about my surroundings than I had been prior to the attack of the harmless car. It had made me realise just how ridiculously paranoid I was being. Not everyone on the planet was out to get me, even if one unknown person was.

My jacket pocket vibrated suddenly.

I instinctively dug my hand into it and fished out the mobile phone. It was only when I had the thing in my grasp and actually looked at it that I realised.

My phone was still lost at 221B.

The expensive BlackBerry in my hands most definitely wasn't mine.

But how…

The phone buzzed violently again. My eyes snapped into focus and I peered at the screen cautiously.

_(2)Messages_

I tapped the envelope icon. The two new emails sat proudly in the inbox. I clicked on the first one and read.

_Unknown sender  
In eleven yards there will be a dry-cleaner's to your left, Dr. Hunt._

I looked up. Yes, there was a dry-cleaner's coming up. Whether or not it was exactly eleven yards away I couldn't tell, but to be honest the precise distance wasn't really bothering me. What was bothering me was that this person knew exactly where I was. They had somehow placed this phone on me. They had waited for me to stop and then messaged me with details of the specific spot.

They were watching me.

They had done more than that; they had gotten close enough to slip something into my front pocket without me even noticing.

Oh, shit.

Hurriedly, I flipped back to the inbox and clicked on the next message, hoping that maybe it was all a large practical joke. A weird joke, maybe, but a joke nonetheless.

_Unknown sender  
It would be in your best interest to enter that dry-cleaner's, doctor._

Somehow, I doubted that.

No, I'd keep on walking. Sherlock's place was only a nine or ten doors beyond the dry-cleaner's. I could run past and make it back there before anything happened. I had to. Otherwise… Well, I wasn't completely keen on the otherwise.

I knew I was shivering as I took a small step forwards, trying to coerce my legs into following my thoughts. I just had to convince myself I could do this. The power of positive thinking was a load of crap, but in dire situations nerve _was_ everything. Or else you would just flounder.

The phone buzzed again.

I wanted to ignore it, I truly did, but found that I couldn't.

_Unknown sender  
I hope these will demonstrate that you will not make it to 221B, doctor._

There was a file attached to the message. A large one. It took a good few seconds to open. My breath caught in my throat when I saw what it contained.

Photos.

Lots of photos.

Definitely over a hundred of them.

And all, undeniably, of one person.

_Me_.

Most of them had that black-and-white grainy feel you got from CCTV, but some were the more usual sort of photograph. I even swore the seventh still was that one Becky had taken the night Sherlock had tagged along. But how could anyone have gotten that? It was… It was…

But something else connected the photographs, something it took me a moment to recognise. They had all been taken in the last couple of weeks. They were documents of my every move since I had first met Sherlock.

Whoever it was, was watching me because of him.

I skipped through the majority of the photos until I reached the end of the file. The last picture was a lot like all the others, black-and-white, sketchy – I doubt I would have even realised it was me had I not known – but it stuck out to me.

My head snapped up and I glanced around, taking in all the little details of my environment I hadn't previously noticed. I looked back down at the BlackBerry.

There was no point arguing it.

The picture had been taken less than three minutes ago, after I had stopped. If I concentrated I could actually manage to make out the blurry phone in my blurry hands.

I hurriedly looked up again, scanning around for where the picture would have been taken from. It would have been across the road, and high up, probably to the right of that kebab sh-

My gaze faltered.

It wasn't just like a CCTV image.

It was one.

Who the hell would be able to access bloody CCTV cameras?

I jumped as another message hummed its way into the phone.

_Unknown sender  
A little faster, if you would, doctor._

How…

What…

Oh, dear Lord.

I could run in the opposite direction. Head straight back to my apartment with the police officer outside. But a little voice in the back of my head told me that if this person could access CCTV footage then running really wasn't going to do much. I could try to ring someone for advice, but quickly found that the bloody phone wouldn't even let me dial! I could follow Sherlock's lead and grab a cab, or maybe even just hop on a random bus. Except that all buses and taxis had mysteriously vanished from the street.

If anything, that scared me the most.

I was never a big fan of coincidences.

I didn't really have any options left. Steadily, my legs almost buckling with every step I took, I slowly made my way towards the dreaded dry-cleaner's, my common sense screaming with every vanishing foot between us.

* * *

"Good morning, doctor."

My ears droned with the whirring of the large machine to my right, of which's purpose I had absolutely no idea, and frankly didn't care about. Clothes hung around the room covered in their plastic sheaths, looking strangely ghostly in my terrified state of mind. The main shop-floor of the place had been deserted apart from an attractive woman busy typing away on her phone when I had first stepped through the garish yellow doors. She was dressed smartly – far too smartly to work somewhere like this – and had said nothing to me, simply lifting up the counter barrier and allowing me entrance into the back room.

I had bitten my lip, my arms subconsciously wrapping themselves around my chest in a search for protection, as I gazed around the cramped space cluttered with garments and odd items, hoping to find the owner of the rich upper-class voice.

"I- I-" I stammered, my voice coming out far quieter than I had hoped. "I don't know about the 'good' part of that."

A chuckle came from my left. "No, but sometimes social etiquette must take hold of the situation."

One, two, three footsteps. I didn't want to look. Didn't want to face my victorious captor. I shut my eyes tightly. It was better if I didn't know. I wouldn't be forced to look at him. I couldn't be.

"Now, now, doctor, my appearance is not so distressing." They spoke lightly, as if the entire situation was no more than a joke to them. Damn it my fear was not someone's plaything.

"Wh- Who are you?" I asked, annoyed at how timid my voice was sounding. But I couldn't control it any better than I could control the unbearable shivering descending on my entire body. I needed to calm my breathing. I would not hyperventilate.

"See for yourself."

No, I wouldn't. Wouldn't. I wouldn't look. A high-pitched sob escaped my lips as my eyes quite independently squinted open a fraction of a millimetre. I still couldn't see. And that was a good thing. Yes, it was. It was very good that-

Sodding eyes, stop opening!

"Ah, that's better now, isn't it?"the man in front of me said, a small smile dancing across his face. Somehow that smile didn't make him look any less threatening. No, I corrected myself, he looked normal. Just a slightly plump man in a suit carrying an umbrella. His sharp nose and pointed chin would certainly land him all the scary villainous roles were he an actor, but apart from that there was nothing unusual about him. But, then why was every hair on my arms standing on end?

Who was he?

"We have a mutual acquaintance." He answered my silent question.

I frowned. "Sherlock?"

His eyebrows rose. "Indeed. I am glad to see that your twenty years of education were not totally wasted."

There was something in the way he spoke, something sly, like a snake ready to strike. The circumstances of our meeting didn't exactly help me warm to him either. "How- how do-"

"Oh, we have a vast history." He interrupted me, again replying to a question I hadn't even asked. There was something oddly familiar in the way he did that. "I think of him always."

The umbrella swung from his hand like a pendulum and part of me was reminded of a hypnotist lulling his volunteer into a deep sleep.

"Why?" I managed to make out.

"We are…" he paused as if searching for the right word, "…_connected_."

Oh, God, this was some crazy stalker dude with a bad case of erotomania towards the tall, dark and handsome consulting detective, wasn't it? And he was getting at me because he was jealous. Oh, crap. This never turned out well on the news.

Maybe I should have tried running.

The man laughed lightly, the sound nothing more than strange tinkles. "Oh, there is no need to be so scared, doctor. I simply wish to have a little chat with you."

Right, cause every normal chat started with threatening emails and creepy surveillance photos. Nothing to be scared about there. "What about?"

The man's grin widened worryingly.

"About our mutual acquaintance, of course."

* * *

_Aw, you all know who it is, why even pretend that you don't? But Melanie doesn't, so try to see it from her POV._

_Oh and sorry for the wait, but he just wouldn't play nicely. The stubborn child._

_Ok, last week was weird. On Monday there was Mark Gatiss' new series on horror. On Tuesday I watched a Martin Freeman movie with friends. On Thursday Benedict Cumberbatch was presenting Have I Got News For You. And on Friday Rupert Graves was in New Tricks (apparently he's also in Single Father on Sunday). It's like the universe is trying to tell me to write. Well, screw you universe! I'll write when I damn well want t- _

_Oh._

_Thanks for the reviews you lovely people! But being the greedy, selfish wench that I am, I would quite like some more! If not I shall curse your pet tortoises into oblivion! Mwahaha! _

_Oh dear. Someone needs sleep, me thinks._


	24. Intangible

**Twenty** **Four**  
_**Intangible**_

I eyed the man standing in front of me cautiously.

Truth was, I was metaphorically petrified, and I was positive it showed – if not on my face – then in my eyes. Something wasn't right about this man, but it wasn't the same as my dear sociopathic friend. There was something else behind that watery blue gaze. Something I couldn't quite put my finger on.

"What do you want to know?" I asked, trying to sound braver than I was feeling. It didn't really work so well.

Mr. Umbrella laughed, his head turning upwards in a completely fake way. "Oh, come now, doctor, so willing to give up information on your lover?"

"He's not my lover." It slipped out almost immediately; I had become so used to correcting people by now. Mr. Umbrella raised an eyebrow questioningly. I swallowed and chose to continue regardless. "And I never said I'd tell you anything. I just asked what it is you'd like to know."

"An astute observation, as always. Except," He paused and appeared to consider his thoughts for a moment. "Why should I answer your question now that I know you will not respond to mine?"

I frowned. This conversation was going nowhere. If he didn't want to ask me anything, then what was I doing here? Maybe he just got his kicks out of scaring little girls. That was almost definitely it.

"What did you want then?"

His expression became more serious, any hints of fake niceties disappearing and a dark stare replacing them. I bit the inside of my cheek.

"To inform you."

I was certain my heart had stopped beating several seconds ago. "Of what?"

Mr. Umbrella tilted his head slightly forwards, so that he had to raise his eyebrows and peer upwards to see my face. He looked rather like a chastising headmaster of an old public school. I had never liked head teachers.

"I have so far not interfered unto your relationship with Sherlock out of the knowledge that it would cease to exist extraordinarily quickly – as it did so last Sunday. However, it appears that your little escapade with the police has rekindled this connection and s-"

"Why did you think it wouldn't last?" I interrupted, my curiosity getting the better of me, chewing up some of my nerves in the process.

The man's stare became excruciatingly patronising. I didn't see why. It was a perfectly reasonable question to ask. I hadn't known Sherlock and I would be… well, not _together_, but something to that effect… for only that time. And I was pretty certain even Sherlock hadn't been expecting it. So how could this stranger know? He had only been following me for a couple of weeks; he couldn't know me.

"Your personalities are somewhat incompatible." He answered annoyingly matter-of-factly. "Even you realise this."

For some reason I suddenly felt the need to defend myself. I frowned and said, "We're not _that_ different."

That small smile twisted its way back onto his face. "Incompatible does not necessarily mean different."

When had my life turned into something where I was more likely to get a vague cryptic response to any question I asked and not a proper answer? Oh, right. When I met Sherlock. "We're not similar enough to cause constant arguments either."

"And that, doctor, is the point."

Ok, what?

Mr. Umbrella obviously caught my confusion. Or he already knew it would confuse me before he spoke. The latter seemed more likely with this guy. He touched the tip of the umbrella against the ground.

"Two reasonably intelligent and emotionally troubled doctors. It appears he's developing something of a type."

Huh? Major topic curve, there. Then I got what he was saying. "Hang on, I'm nothing like John."

Sure, sometimes I wished I was – what with his courage and adrenaline-addict persona – but I simply wasn't. For one thing, I was positive that, if he were in my shoes, his fingers wouldn't be starting to go numb with fear.

"Exactly." The man before me said plainly. "In fact, I might go as far to say that you are the polar opposite of Dr. Watson. And there lies the problem, doctor."

"What problem?" I spoke softly, at little more than merely scared at this point. And then I saw it – the difference between Sherlock and this man. Sherlock was annoying and stalked danger. He was like a sulky child who had been given too much freedom. But despite that, despite all the trouble he brought with him, he was still just a man. This person standing before me… he had power.

And if he thought I was a problem…

"Ah, do not worry, Dr. Hunt, if I wished for you to disappear from Sherlock's life it would have happened an age ago and I would not have troubled to make this visit." Oh, that was very reassuring. "But it is my duty to warn you of one crucial detail."

My toes scrunched up inside my shoes, as if in preparation for a sprint. But even then I knew just what a fat lot of good running would do here.

"What?"

Mr. Umbrella didn't move an inch, and yet it felt as if he had just pinned me against a wall and held a knife to my throat. His stare was too strong.

"You," he said clearly, annunciating every word, "will change."

I didn't know what to say to that. I didn't truly understand what he meant, but something within me told me I wouldn't like it. And there was something else behind the simple statement – the overtones of an order.

"H- How?"

Mr. Umbrella's gaze finally left me, turning upwards to look at the ceiling. "Oh, it has begun already. Soon you will see."

Silence swept between us for a moment, only being broken by the loud rumblings coming from the odd machines within the room.

How could I possibly respond to that?

Mr. Umbrella's head tilted down to me again, but this time he looked somewhat more ordinary, as if he was bottling all his creepy power up inside him. "And now I should be going. I would hurry if I were you, Dr. Hunt, before the rain arrives."

"Bu- Wha-" I stuttered, watching in surprise as he simply started walking towards the exit of the room, the umbrella swinging haphazardly with each step. He was at the barrier to the store front by the time I collected my thoughts together enough to make anything out.

"Your phone-"

"Oh, keep it." He dismissed without even turning back to glance at the BlackBerry I was holding out to him. "I dare say you'll need it."

I was still puzzling over that as the barrier swung downwards after him, his shady form vanishing around the corner.

* * *

He was right, of course.

I should have hurried back to 221B as soon as he left and not stood there for five minutes trying to come up with one sensible thought.

Even if I hadn't been running down the street in my quest to get somewhere safe, I would have had to sprint through the sudden downpour in order not to drown. I could imagine Mrs. Hudson's despairing look as I dashed past her, leaving grey puddles all over the hallway, but I didn't stop to check or apologise.

"Sherlock! Sherlock! _Sherlock_!"

I spun around, scanning the fantastically cluttered living room, yelling for the one person I really wanted to see.

He didn't even flinch as I leapt through the kitchen where he stood, staring resolutely down through the eyepiece of a microscope perched on top of the microwave.

But I certainly felt how his muscles twitched under the sudden onslaught of my smothering grasp around his waist, my face burying its way into his shoulder.

Ten seconds passed before my mind snapped back into place.

I swiftly lowered my arms and stepped backwards.

"Uh, yeah… sorry…" I mumbled clumsily, wondering why I had just launched myself into that hug so quickly. Seeking comfort from Sherlock was way outside of the unspoken boundaries of our relationship. "That was… weird…"

To say the least.

Sherlock slowly looked up and peered at me through narrowed eyes. I could sense the deducing rays shining down on me. Then his face cleared of all confusion. "Oh."

He turned and calmly pressed his eye back to the microscope once more.

"What's wrong? I heard shouting." I heard John's concerned voice as he walked into the room.

"I…" I made out, raising a hand and tangling it into my rain-sodden hair. I took several small steps backwards and then took the same ones forward again, almost rocking in my place. My brain felt like it was starting to unravel. And by starting I meant completely totally undeniably shit crazy.

"Melanie, what's wrong?" John repeated, the worry in his voice rising.

I shook my head. "I…"

Oh, crap, I couldn't even speak. Everything had gotten too much for my little old mind to handle. The week I was having could make anyone go insane, and I severely doubted I was any different. "… Can't be… I mean… what…"

"Sherlock, what happened?" John spoke clearly. But I wasn't even listening to him anymore, I just kept on wandering between my two spots on the floor only a couple of feet apart. Nothing was really making sense anymore and I noticed vaguely that unconnected words kept tumbling unbidden out of my mouth.

"_Sherlock_!" John's voice was louder now, more demanding.

"Hmm?" was all of Sherlock's reply, not even bothering to turn away from whatever was under that damn microscope.

"_What happened?"_

I blinked over and over again, trying to clear the spots that were starting to appear in front of my eyes.

"Oh," Sherlock finally responded, his tone completely unfazed. "It's nothing important."

John scoffed angrily. "_Nothing important_? Look at her, Sherlock! She's a wreck! I mean, no offence Melanie or anything, but-"

But I wasn't offended in the slightest, mainly because I didn't even hear what he was saying. Sure, I recognised the fuming and anxious noises coming from him, but I didn't pay them enough attention to actually have them sink into my skull. I was too far gone up bat creek.

At last Sherlock pulled away from the microscope and faced John and me, clearly finding it too difficult to work under the inconvenient circumstances.

"She met Mycroft." He informed John plainly.

John's speech faltered.

Then it started again.

"And… And you don't think that's _important_?"

"Of course not."

"Sherlock, the first time I met Mycroft he _kidnapped_ me! Melanie's already in a bad state and this on top of it is not going to help with the stress!"

"That's only because some people have no sense of adventure."

"Please tell me you're joking, Sherlock. Don't you at least care a little bit about-"

"What kind of a name is Mycroft?" I suddenly spat out my first coherent sentence since entering the flat. John stopped and looked at me, the surprise etched on his face. Sherlock seemed to be peering somewhere over his shoulder, clearly thinking about something else. I frowned. "I mean, it's almost as bad as Sher-"

That's when it hit me.

I gasped and stumbled backwards until my legs hit the base of the armchair behind me.

The hair colour.

The shape of those eyes.

The arch of that Cupid's bow.

The far too familiar feeling of being mind-numbingly stupid.

"Oh, dear God." I collapsed back into the chair, my eyes refusing to blink as I stared at the floor several feet in front of me.

"… You're related, aren't you?"

* * *

_Aww, I love Mycroft. And his umbrella. It is cool. _

_Stephen Fry's playing him in the next movie. That should be awesome, despite my decided meh-ness about the first film._

_Oh, did anyone see Mark Gatiss' version of The Men in the Moon on BBC4? Twas awesome. I suggest u watch it if it's on iPlayer._

_Um, just fyi I doubt I'll be able to update again until the start of next week as I'm busy over the weekend. Sorry, but at least I got one out before then!_

_Thanks again for the reviews! You guys obviously love Mycroft just as much as me! _

_And now I've been talking for too long. Tarrah!_


	25. Information

**Twenty** **Five**  
_**Information**_

A heavy pause hung in the room for no more than five seconds while I continued staring blankly at the floor in front of my feet.

"I told you that you should have noticed, John." Sherlock's voice sounded calmly. I found that my eyes wouldn't shift upwards to see him. "Even Melanie could deduce that."

"What? Sherlock, I think I had a little more on my mind than whether your self-proclaimed arch- Oh, never mind." There were footfalls and something warm and solid landed on my left forearm. "Melanie, are you alright?"

Finally I managed to creak my neck around and up, so that I could see more than the odd carpet choice. John was crouching next to my chair, looking so concerned for me that I felt a pang of something inside me. What that was? Friendship maybe? Or maybe the feeling of being truly understood? It was as if he knew exactly what I was going through. Which he probably did – I reminded myself.

"Who is he?" I whispered out, all of my thoughts sincerely confused.

John smiled sadly at me. "Mycroft Holmes? That would be Sherlock's brother."

My eyebrows shot upwards. Brother? At the most I had thought cousin, maybe even third cousin twice removed. But a brother? As in a proper close family sibling? _Sherlock's_ sibling? That was… That was…

"You have a _brother_?" I spat out, my head snapping around to face the accused man. Sherlock was currently swirling some clear liquid around a beaker and inspecting the results.

"Yes."

"And you didn't tell me because?"

He stopped examining the oh so important liquid and frowned at me. "Should I have? You didn't tell me of yours."

"You already knew everything about him!"

Sherlock looked as if he genuinely didn't see my point. "Exactly."

Why didn't he just say out loud the silent 'If I can deduce anything about any member of your immediate family then you should be able to as well' on the end of that? He might as well as done.

"You could have at least warned me what he was like!" I yelled back disbelievingly. "I mean, he's so… so… well, he doesn't exactly come across as a very nice person, does he? And, well, I mean, you know I'm not scared or anything, but it just… just… yeah…"

"Don't worry." John said patting my arm. "He's a creepy sod, yes, but I don't think he'd actually try to hurt any of us."

Sherlock's loud scoff did not help in calming my nerves.

John shot him a warning glance. "Shut up, will you?"

My hands balled up and my fingers began fidgeting about. "He was just… What he said…" I sighed loudly. "I don't even know how to describe it."

"Let me guess," John said rolling his eyes. "He offered you money to spy on Sherlock?"

My frown instantly increased. "What?"

"Don't be so ridiculous, John. It's painfully obvious that bribing Melanie would only cause her to mentally break down. Mycroft wouldn't even suggest such a thing."

I shook my head and scratched my temple. Despite the puzzle pieces now falling into place around me, nothing was even close to making sense in my brain. And what was this about bribes? What kind of a man pays people to spy on their brother for him? A Holmes, obviously. God, I hoped Sherlock would never do something like that. Mind you, he didn't seem that interested in what his brother was up to – certainly not enough to bribe anyone, anyway.

"He's been watching me." I made out, my thoughts still all fogged up.

"Yes, he does that, I'm afraid." John said with a sigh, the sense of defeat clear in his tone. "He says he's concerned for Sherlock."

"Most people just call round for a chat." I grumbled, thinking about how Mycroft had managed to get his hands on snapshots of every movement in my recent life. It was so _wrong_. I swore he had even managed to get a picture of me coming out of the shower in nothing but a towel. That thought caused a shiver to run down my spine. "Hang on- He had pictures from inside this flat – ones that could only have been taken _from_ inside and not through the window or anything. Sherlock, has he bugged this apartment?"

I gazed up at the detective, trying to read his expression. But all I found was the usual sheen of frustrated boredom. "It would be highly unlike him not to."

My mouth dropped open in shock. "And you don't _care_?"

"I found long ago that any attempts to destroy them would just lead to the surveillance doubling in strength. There's really no purpose to agonising over it anymore." He answered simply.

"Wait," John stuttered out incredulously, "are you saying there are _cameras in our flat_?"

Sherlock gave him one of his trademark patronizing stares. "Naturally, John. You didn't honestly believe that Mycroft would miss such a crucial aspect of my life not to interfere with?"

"But that's…" it looked as if John was struggling with what that was exactly. I had to admit, I really couldn't blame him. "And you didn't even think of letting me know that I was being watched in my own home? No, of course you didn't. My feelings or even opinions on these matters are never your concern, are they?"

"I thought you would have noticed them by now."

"Oh, yeah, Sherlock, because that's something I look out for in my day-to-day life when wandering around my own flat."

"Well, the microphones are practically in plain view, especially the one on your bedside table."

"_Microphones_? You mean he bloody listens to me while I _sleep_? For God's sake, is he listening to us _now_?"

"Almost certainly."

"And that doesn't-"

"Wait!" I interjected loudly into their squabbling. A thought had just popped into my head. A nasty thought. An extremely nasty thought. A thought on the same level as dead bodies in terms of nastiness. John stopped complaining, but continued to glare at his flatmate. Sherlock turned to me and raised an eyebrow. "He- he knows when everything's happening inside this flat? _Everything_?"

"Apparently so." John grunted out through gritted teeth. My eyesight remained on Sherlock, wanting an answer from him.

All I got was a quick, "I suppose."

My face turned pale. "But that means… he knows when… I mean, cameras and microphones…" I was trying to be as tactful as could here, but somehow it wasn't working so well. Finally I gave up circumnavigating the issue. "It doesn't bother you that your brother is able to see you when you're… _preoccupied_?"

Sherlock frowned. I had the feeling that John had suddenly decided that he didn't enjoy looking at either of us very much. But for me it was an important question. Who knew what Mycroft had caught on those cameras? Well, I did actually. And it was that which scared me.

"I hadn't considered that." Sherlock answered. It didn't exactly make me any less concerned to see that he didn't look too worried at all. Instead of flying into a rage or just being plain old grossed out, he placidly lifted the beaker up to his face again and resumed examining its contents. "Not important."

Not im- Oh, dear Lord.

"Sher-" I started, but then quickly realised who I was dealing with. I slumped further back into the chair and sighed, shaking my head forlornly at the ceiling. "Oh, screw it, you won't listen."

An awkward silence followed. Well, awkward for me and John; I don't suppose Sherlock knew what the term awkward silence meant.

At last, it was broken by John clearing his throat several times. "Uh, tea, anyone?"

"Please." Sherlock replied vaguely.

"Sure. Mela-"

"Did he set me up for Mr. Peterson's murder?"

Another silence, but this time heavy with something else.

John had stopped mid-way towards the kettle, clearly not expecting my question. Neither had I, really, except that the idea had just occurred to me. I needed to voice it and get answers.

"Err, what?" John asked quietly.

I sat up straight once more, now determined to figure this mess out. "Was Mycroft Holmes or someone acting on his behalf the person who rang me and then the police on the night I was arrested?"

John looked at Sherlock, as if he too wanted to know the answer.

Sherlock continued swirling the beaker in front of him.

"No."

I let out a frustrated breath of air. At last I had thought I was getting somewhere with understanding this. I had thought that maybe Mycroft was testing me. Or perhaps that he was testing Sherlock and his reaction to my getting in trouble. Or most likely both.

But I didn't think Sherlock was lying here.

"Will you please tell me who did?" I pleaded softly. Sherlock was like a little lost kitten – ask too loudly or suddenly and he'd just run off. Delicacy – that was what was needed here.

Apparently it made no difference how I asked though, I would have never gotten an answer out of him at that point.

The liquid in the beaker had magically turned a subtle green hue.

Sherlock dramatically turned and dropped it dangerously onto the table, that happy little gleam back in his eyes. He swooped out of the kitchen and towards the sofa where his coat and scarf lay discarded.

"Now we have our thief!" he announced proudly.

John and I both narrowed our eyes.

"There was a thief?"

"Oh, do keep up, John." Sherlock snapped, sweeping his coat onto his shoulders and wrapping the scarf around his neck. "They need us at Scotland Yard."

"Wha- Sher-" But John clearly knew he wouldn't get any response from Sherlock as I noticed that while he stammered out questions and complaints, he was also shrugging on his jacket and hurrying towards the door after a retreating Sherlock.

"You're going?" I spoke up surprised.

"Won't be long." Sherlock said, although he didn't even turn back to look at me as he walked out the door, John scurrying after.

The door shut with an ominous thud.

I sat in the armchair, gazing at where he had just stood.

For the first time, I wasn't merely annoyed at one of Sherlock's sudden and cryptic departures.

I was scared.

* * *

_Short compared to my recent ones I know. But don't worry, I shall karmically be retributed. Lol, hope some people got that._

_Anyways, not much else to say._

_Review? Pleasie? For me? Or else I may just be forced to do oh so nasty things to Sherlock and Melanie. Yay for blackmail! _


	26. Interruptions

**Twenty** **Six**  
_**Interruptions **_

"Did we really have to come out tonight? We could have stayed in and watched a film or something? Or you could have executed some foul experiment while I watched a film? Or-"

"Stop it. You're statistically far less likely to be attacked in public than while alone in my flat."

"That's not… I mean…" I dropped my eyes in embarrassment, focusing my attention on the napkin in front of me. Sherlock was right as usual. I really didn't want to step outside the safe boundaries of his lovely cluttered apartment. I just didn't feel secure out there anymore. It had only been a couple of days since… well, _that_ happened – it was bound to take some time to adjust to normality again, wasn't it? Sherlock was just hurrying things. I needed time to squash the paranoid voice inside my head screaming about how someone was still out there trying to harm me and Sherlock's big brother was always watching me and the police hadn't yet decided whether they were prosecuting. And, as always, Sherlock just wanted to rush around without even considering these things.

I sighed and looked back up. Sherlock already knew exactly what I was feeling. Why even bother to try to hide it? "You do realise that this is the first date we've actually been on?"

Sherlock calmly took a sip of water from the glass before him, staring fixedly at one waiter in particular as he navigated through the complex maze of tables. "I took you to the circus."

I tilted my head to the side and let out a single syllable of laughter. "Sherlock, that was not a date."

"I don't see how it was any different to tonight." He said distractedly as he continued examining the waiter, probably to see if he had committed any disgusting crimes in his recent past.

"No, I suppose you woul-" I paused suddenly, a terrible realisation sweeping over me. I groaned, severely tempted to thump my head onto the red tablecloth. I managed to suppress the urge. "We're here on a case, aren't we?"

Sherlock didn't answer. I took that as a bad sign.

Instead he finally turned away from the waiter and faced me, although I noticed he still wasn't looking me in the eyes.

Bad sign number two.

"I thought you didn't eat while on a case?"

"I don't."

I frowned. "Then why are you currently nibbling on that prawn cracker?"

Sherlock took another bite from the pinkish shape in his fingers, raising his eyebrows at me as if it were obvious. "I suppose the only logical explanation for that is that I am therefore not on a case."

I looked around the dimly lit room carefully, trying to judge whether this was some kind of clever ploy on his part. The beige walls, dated burgundy carpet and many golden dragons and paintings depicting scenes from long past rural Thailand suggested nothing but an ordinary restaurant. But there must be something. Sherlock didn't go anywhere unless he had a reason. And more often than not that reason only spelt bad news for me.

"Why are we here?" I asked, more wanting to know the level of danger I was in than the actual answer.

Sherlock leant forwards, picking through the basket of crackers between us before apparently deciding that none were good enough for him. The flickering candlelight gleamed off his smoky eyes as he looked up at me. I could feel the burn as he inspected every twitch of my facial muscles.

"What do you think of Sarah?"

My eyes narrowed. What had that got to do with anything? Did Sherlock bring me all the way out here just so that he could moan about John's girlfriend away from him? No, that couldn't be it. John was out tonight anyway. And besides, Sherlock really wouldn't care about the social etiquette surrounding voicing his complaints in front of the man.

One of the waitresses stopped beside our little table, a large fake smile on her face.

She had barely even opened her mouth to speak when Sherlock cut her off, speaking a few short words in what I presumed was fluent Thai. That man really could do everything. Except speak Pali, of course, but naturally that wasn't important in this modern age.

The waitress looked surprised for a second at being spoken to in something other than a mock-cockney English, but then nodded and hurried off elsewhere. Something in the back of my mind hoped Sherlock hadn't ordered the chicken feet or anything like that.

Most of me, however, was still pondering his earlier question.

"Why are you asking me that?"

Sherlock didn't shift his scrutinizing gaze, but his eyebrows rose slightly, as if telling me that he most definitely was not going to answer that. I shrugged in defeat.

"I don't know, she seems nice." I said as I turned away from Sherlock and took a drink from my water. The glass tapped back down onto the table. "You obviously wouldn't like her."

"Obviously?" he asked, for once sounding kind of interested in what someone other than his mighty self had to say. I had a slight feeling of distorted déjà vu.

I dismissed his question lightly with another small shrug. "She's too normal. You like your people – how did your darling brother put it? – _emotionally troubled_."

Sherlock huffed and turned away again. "You shouldn't listen to Mycroft."

Ooh, someone had clearly touched a nerve there. Sibling drama. Maybe I was actually starting to find things out about this man.

"Sherlock, it's true. Just look at me and John." I gave him a knowing look. He didn't move but I could feel the annoyance emanating off of his skin. I continued regardless. He already knew this, surely. And if he didn't, then he would have to find out soon enough. "Sarah is a perfectly nice, respectable, honest General Practitioner – in other words, she's _normal_. And naturally that means you find her-"

The waitress placed the large oriental teapot on the table with a soft thud. She then smiled brightly as she twisted the little cups on each of our place settings the right way up.

"Are you ready to order?" she asked in a surprisingly rich Scottish accent. I peered at her curiously, wishing I had Sherlock's skills of perception. She was young, so a student maybe? Down here for university and this is her part-time job? I didn't know. She could have been anyone.

"Not quite yet, thanks." I told her kindly. I hadn't even opened the menu since I had sat down.

She nodded and made to turn away, but Sherlock got there first.

"Yes we are. Ignore her."

Oh, thanks.

He then proceeded to reel off a load of words in Thai that I didn't understand. I thought I heard the word for noodles somewhere but couldn't be certain. I was mainly too concerned about the fact that Sherlock was ordering for me. Without even asking me first.

The waitress scarpered off to the kitchens at the back.

"Sher-"

"I know the menu. Trust me."

And that was what I was struggling with. Because in some ways I did. I could trust him to work out any problem I was having – as long as it involved danger and crime. And on some level I could trust him to keep me safe. But with everyday things, such as tidying up, making a cup of tea, choosing food, or not filling the living room with poisonous fumes, he really wasn't so reliable.

Sherlock filled our cups with steaming green tea. "You were saying about what I find Sarah?"

I snapped out of my worries and chuckled. "_Boring_, Sherlock. You find her boring." I took a tentative sip of the tea and regretted it as the far too hot liquid scalded my tongue. I dove for the iced water. "Of course," I managed out when my tongue had stopped boiling. "She could have been the most interesting person in the world and you still wouldn't like her."

"Really? Why not?" Sherlock was back to his I'm-not-really-interested voice.

I rolled my eyes. "Because she's taking your toy away from you."

Sherlock's eyes snapped back into focus and he frowned at me. "John's not a toy."

"Oh, please. We're all breathing toys in your giant playground, Sherlock. And for some reason you don't come across as the type of child who enjoys sharing."

"That's not-"

"Mr. Holmes!" My head rotated quickly at the sudden and loud interruption. An elderly oriental man had approached our table, a wide grin on his face. "Sophia just told me that you were here! I hope you are enjoying your usual table, yes?"

Sherlock didn't look surprised at all. He nodded calmly. "Yes, Victor, it is perfectly fine."

The man peered at me, his smile doubling.

"Ah, and you have brought a lady friend tonight!" he exclaimed in his heavily accented voice. "You are enjoying yourself as well, yes?"

"Err…" I made out, a little surprised at the man's appearance. "Yes, thank you."

"Good, good. You shall let me know if you want anything. My kitchen is always open to you, Mr. Holmes! Anything you want my chefs will make."

Oh, so he was the restaurant owner or manager or something. And he clearly knew Sherlock from somewhere. In fact, it looked as if he was sort of in love with Sherlock. Not in a romantic way, of course. It was odd.

"Thank you, we've already ordered." Sherlock told him jadedly.

"Oh, yes, yes. With Amy. She is new here. Would you know, Mr. Holmes, if-"

"She is exceptionally dull." He answered the unvoiced question. The man's expression cleared of any small trace of worry.

"Oh, good, good. After Edward we were so nervous as to finding a new employee, but if Mr. Holmes approves of Amy, then-" he sighed, pausing his far too quick words, "Oh, look at me rambling. I shall leave you two alone again. If you need anything just ask, just ask."

Sherlock sipped his tea elegantly. "We will."

The man gave us one more huge smile before starting to make his way across the narrow room again. I only just managed to get out a small thanks before he left. I turned back to Sherlock, one eyebrow raised in confusion.

"Victor Wong." He said as if it explained everything. I didn't get it. "I aided him in the apprehension of a blackmailer some years ago."

"Oh." Of course. Sherlock didn't know anybody unless they had had some sort of dealings with the police or nasty criminals. His circle of friends was rather narrow, to say the least. The corner of my lips curled upwards as I thought of something. I reached into the pocket of the coat resting on the back of my chair and pulled something out. "So I needn't have picked up your wallet when you forgot it on the sofa this evening?"

Sherlock eyed the black wallet I was holding dangerously for a moment. He then calmly took it from my fingers and placed it into his inner jacket pocket. "I didn't forget it."

I laughed. Of course he didn't. The stupid prideful git.

Sherlock was pouting, maybe not visibly, but the sulky rays were blasting from his every pore as he took another angry bite from a prawn cracker.

And then I spotted it.

The slight, almost unnoticeable flicker of his gaze and the nearly imperceptible shiver of excitement across his skin.

My smile vanished and I looked around to where his gaze had gone over my shoulder.

And I saw it.

I saw them.

"_Noooo_." I stretched out quietly, in utter disbelief. My head rotated back to face the infernal man sitting opposite me. It annoyed me even more to see that he didn't look the slightest bit guilty. My voice came out in an irate whisper. "_No, no, no. Sherlock, you did not… Oh, for Christ's sake, you're as bad as Mycroft!"_

Sherlock did not appreciate that.

* * *

_Sorry this one took so long, but I've been real busy. Hopefully you're still interested enough to read it?_

_Although I realise this wasn't the best chapter in the world. Next one will pick up again I hope._

_Reviews are nice and fluffy and make me feel all gooey inside! Like an old banana._


	27. Incensing

**Twenty** **Seven**  
_**Incensing **_

I knew it was a mistake to say that. The level of ice in Sherlock's glare told me that much. I could see all the muscles in his upper body tensing even through his jacket. I was therefore surprised when he didn't suddenly throw over the table and go on a rampage. In fact, his voice was barely different to its usual tones.

"Do not compare me to Mycroft." But I could feel it in those words – the tension and anger.

Brother issues were now a definite.

"_But that's whom you're acting like!"_ I whispered fiercely, not really thinking about what Sherlock might do to me if he got too angry. There was no way I was holding back in this situation.

Sherlock just stared at me for a second, pummelling me with his terrible gaze.

But then he stopped and looked away. Inexplicably calmly he lifted the small tea cup to his lips once more and drank.

"Coincidence." He offered simply as an explanation for the events occurring.

Something in me didn't think that was too likely.

"Oh, please! Sherlock, I know you're not exactly normal, but this is beyond a joke!" I spat out before noticing Sherlock's expression. "And you're not even listening to me because you're too busy staring at them, aren't you?"

Sherlock's murmur of response answered that question quite clearly.

"Oh, my God, you-" I gave up my frantic mutters and grabbed one of the chopsticks on the table. Sherlock blinked in surprise and switched his attention back to me at the hard jab on his hand. I was glad to finally have his consideration. "_Listen to me! This. Is. Wrong."_

"You don't believe in a definitive right and wrong." He answered plainly. My frustration doubled. He wasn't even taking me seriously.

"Well, I'm sorry." I said, placing both hands onto the table in front of me. "I know I usually just go along with your insane ideas, but this I can't do."

I made to stand, but Sherlock's quick grab of my lower arm stopped me. He held it in place firmly, giving me a long and meaningful look.

"If you move, they'll spot us."

I scoffed furiously, pulling my hand roughly out of Sherlock's grasp and standing up. "_Exactly_."

"Mela-" Sherlock started but I ignored him as I decidedly strolled away, navigating my way through the twists and turns of the different tables and parties gathered.

Sherlock could go screw himself. This was way past what I was prepared to put up with, and while most of the things I saw with him were, at least this was something I could put a stop to.

As I walked towards the pair nearest the door, the one facing my direction saw me. At first I thought they hadn't recognised me, but then they tapped the other on the arm and said something to them I couldn't hear. They turned just as I ground to a halt beside their table.

"I am really, really sorry." Were the first words out of my mouth as I looked down at the man with what I hoped was an apologetic gaze. His brow furrowed, confusion sweeping over his expressions.

"Melanie? Sorry for what? What are you doing here?" John asked, looking extremely puzzled, and not just a little bit surprised.

I sighed, feeling some of my annoyance slip away. "Take a wild guess."

John's frown deepened as he thought it over for all of two seconds before the realisation swept over him. His face went slack, and a dark gleam crossed his eyes.

"No." he let out quietly. His head snapped around and he began combing the restaurant for what I was sure he already knew. I shook my head as I saw just why that particular spot was Sherlock's usual table. It wasn't in a corner, but the small place next to the window was undoubtedly the most unobtrusive in the building. You could easily watch any of the other customers without so much as a glance.

"What's wrong?" Sarah asked worriedly, her head also popping up to try to see what had caught John's attention.

But John had found him already. His jaw clenched uncomfortably. "_Sherlock_."

And Sherlock had seen what was happening too. He swiftly stood and scooped up his coat and scarf from the back of his chair. I honestly thought he was going to come and talk to us, and a tiny little part of me hoped that he would be man enough to apologise and explain.

But that wasn't Sherlock. It never would be.

We all watched, not quite sure how to react, as the tall lanky man strutted right past us and out of the front door.

John immediately stood and made to follow. And by all means I ran after. This could really get messy; there needed to be an umpire or something to stop things if they got too blood-spattered.

"Sherlock!" John yelled as I let the door swing shut behind me. "Don't you dare try to run away!"

Sherlock let his hand fall to his side, swishing his head around to look at him. The taxi that had been slowing down speeded up again and drove on.

"I am not running away." Sherlock told John defensively. I would have laughed had I not been so frightened that either of them would end up killing the other. You could really get Sherlock to do anything by manipulating his pride.

John marched up to him, still shouting furiously. "Good! 'Cause I wouldn't want to be out of breath when I bloody strangled you!"

Sherlock simply stood up a little straighter as he merrily stretched his right hand into his glove. "You are not going to strangle me."

I trotted closer to them, but still kept my distance in case John decided to throw a punch. Which was entirely likely with the look he was giving the man.

"Why the hell shouldn't I?"

"Because the level of anger you are currently experiencing isn't nearly sufficient to cause you to lose your self-control and attack me. Your fists aren't even clenched."

John grunted fiercely, his voice rising even louder if that was at all possible. "Are you deliberately trying to ruin my relationship with Sarah or do you genuinely not realise what you're doing?"

Sherlock shoved his hands into his pocket, not appearing in the slightest bit concerned or sorry. "I don't think that eating in the same restaurant as you warrants this level of aggression."

I flinched, positive John was going to launch himself at the detective. But I needn't have worried it seemed. John's powers of restraint were certainly a lot higher than mine.

"Oh, don't you?" he screamed, trying to make himself as tall as possible. "Because I call it _sabotage_!"

Sherlock barely moved, but I caught the sudden display of annoyance on his face. "It is not sabotage. You wouldn't have even noticed that I was there had it not been for Melanie's horrendous display of stupidity."

"_Stupidity_?" I let out irately. Since when had not following your friend when he went on a date been called stupidity?

"Don't you try to blame this on Melanie!" Well, at least John was still on my side. "This isn't her fault!"

Sherlock's voice became slightly louder, letting some of his frustration leak out. "Well, she's the reason you're currently shouting at me, so I think that it is."

He pointed at me accusingly. My mouth fell open in shock. How could he be pinning this all on _me_? "It's not _my_ fault that you're a complete arse, is it?"

"Sherlock, how difficult is it for you to believe-"

"John?"

"-that you might just for once-"

"John?"

"-be wrong about something?"

"_John_?"

Both John and I spun around to face the owner of the anxious voice. Sarah stood on the doorstep to the restaurant, her arms wrapped around herself to fend off the cold.

I noticed how John faltered slightly. He wanted to continue yelling at Sherlock, I could see that. But he also didn't want to scare off Sarah or make her upset with him. He had already run out of the restaurant on her, that tended not to be the perfect start to a date. He was weighing it up in his mind clearly – his urge to strangle Sherlock battling against his common sense.

His head twisted back to face Sherlock as he made a decision.

"_You_…" he muttered fiercely so that Sarah wouldn't hear above the traffic. "_I_…"

He let out an angry noise half way between a grunt and a yell, obviously not able to think of anything to say. He decisively gave up and rotated on the spot before stamping his way back over to Sarah.

"Sorry." He apologised gruffly. "I'll explain inside. It's too cold out here."

Sarah gave Sherlock and I each a curious and fretful glance, but nodded regardless, letting John open the door for her as they retreated back into the building.

Leaving me alone with the man that had just called me stupid.

I peered at Sherlock, determined to fight my ground, but the cold glare I received stopped me short. I bit my bottom lip nervously, not sure what to say. For some reason there was a moment where I considered apologising to him. But then I realised just how stupid that was and let it go.

"Look-"

"You've left your coat inside." Sherlock interrupted harshly. I looked down and realised that there were goose bumps rising all along my arms.

I nodded glumly, giving up on any screams I might have been harbouring in my head.

I gave him a last despondent look before turning on my heels and hiking back into the warmth of the restaurant to retrieve my coat.

By the time I got back outside again, Sherlock was already gone.

* * *

I thanked Mrs. Hudson, bid her a quiet goodnight and made my way up the stairs. The flat was unusually devoid of the sounds of violin scratches, gunshots or explosions as I shut the door softly and leaned against it, taking in the familiar surroundings.

Sherlock was curled up on the sofa, either pretending to be asleep or just plain sulking.

"You could have at least waited for me." I told him gently. I wasn't really angry about it, or even surprised, but I thought that I should let him know the proper manners regardless. "I was less than two minutes."

Sherlock didn't reply, or even move. I slowly pushed away from the door and undid my coat, placing it over the nearest armchair as I walked further into the den.

"Would you like a cup of tea or something?"

In one swift fluid motion Sherlock was sitting upright, glaring at me again.

"What are you doing here?" he asked rudely. "Have you decided to move in without consulting me first?"

"Of course not. I just…" I let my sentence hang in the air without ending.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow expectantly. "What?"

How could I tell him? I didn't truly understand it myself. I just… _wanted_ to be here. I didn't want to be stuck on my own in my little apartment with no one but the television for company. I didn't even want to stay at Becky's or Lucas' and have them chatter mundanely at me while I sat and nodded. I wanted to be here. I wanted to be with someone who understood what had happened this week and would try to prevent it occurring again. I wanted Sherlock.

But I couldn't say that. Why need I bother when I knew that Sherlock could already read it from my body language? Or was he really that ignorant of this thing called fear?

I sighed. This wasn't helping anyone and Sherlock was most definitely annoyed with me. "I'll go back to mine after work tomorrow."

"Good." Sherlock said as he slumped back down and rolled away so that he was staring at the back of the couch. "Then maybe I'll have some time to think."

I rolled my eyes and collapsed into the armchair, exhaustion taking over.

"You're pissed – I get it." I waited all of a minute for to at least recognise that I had spoken. But he didn't. The stubborn prick. "Look, all I did was make sure that John could have a little alone time with Sarah. People occasionally need space, you know."

Sherlock let out an eloquent grunt in response.

"What are you so mad about?" I asked, giving up on sounding concerned. I really did not understand the way his mind worked.

"Your foolishness." He mumbled spitefully. God, he was such a child.

"It's not foolish to prevent obsessive following." I told him, my temper beginning to rise again. "You're just upset because I ruined your scheme."

For some reason, that got his attention and his body snapped up again like a spring. His jaw was set firmly as he leered at me. "No, I'm not."

I threw one of my hands into the air in defeat. "Then what the hell is it?"

Sherlock's voice shifted and became one of pure loathing. "You were trying to change me!"

I stopped.

That was… well, unexpected to say the least.

"What?" I asked, eyebrows up near my hairline and completely confused. Where had that come from? It was not only untrue; it was entirely out of context with our conversation.

Sherlock got to his feet dramatically and started pacing the length of the room. My eyes followed his unusually erratic movements. I frowned, my concern heightening.

"Don't you understand? No, of course you don't, you're Melanie." I would have been insulted if I wasn't so used to his jabs by now. Sherlock continued talking and I found that I had to listen really closely to make head nor tails out of it. "All of them constantly instruct me on what I can and can't do. Telling me what's supposedly right and what's supposedly wrong. They do it even when they know perfectly well that I have no interest in what they say. It's insignificant and tiresome to consider those things. All they're trying to do is normalise me, make me into another blithering idiot with no dignity, train me like some petty dog!"

I stood up too so that I was on the same level as the infuriating man. "For God's sake, Sherlock! Telling someone not to do something stupid is not the same as training them!"

Sherlock stopped pacing and stared at me.

"How is it any different?" he spat heatedly.

"I…"

I couldn't finish that. To be honest, I suppose that technically if you looked at things completely literally then he had a point. But there was a distinction. It wasn't training… But I couldn't really describe why. It was more a feeling of the actions than something tangible about them.

I gave up looking for a good enough reason and sighed. "I wasn't trying to train you like an animal."

Sherlock gave me a disbelieving glance and asked incredulously, "Really?"

I let out an angry groan.

"Yes!" I shouted at him, utterly fed up of attempting to get this man to see sense. "Sherlock, I am not trying to change you! In case you hadn't noticed, I'm actually quite fond of you as you are!"

"That doesn't mean-"

"Oh, my God! You're a twisted sociopathic mess with the emotional range of a five year old and the brain power of ten genii, how the hell are you not getting this? I'm not trying to change you because I don't care if you're an annoying sod who does the stupidest things ever done! _I like you_!"

I finished my rant, my breathing now heavy and hands now clenched by my sides.

Sherlock's face was unreadable. His previous annoyance has slipped away and left a blank canvas, only touched with the faintest hints of something in his eyes.

Nobody spoke for a few minutes and the noise of Mrs. Hudson's TV echoed through the floor, making me wonder vaguely whether she had put it on to try to block out the sounds of our argument from up here.

Finally, Sherlock opened his mouth to speak.

"Fine."

I blinked in surprise as he stepped across the room and the gap between us magically vanished. Before I saw what was coming, his hands had grabbed either side of my face, yanking my lips upwards to meet his.

A dangerous thought crossed my mind as I gave in and let my eyes close.

_Was I Sherlock's girlfriend?_

* * *

_A while back someone – sorry can't remember who and I've deleted the message like a clever person – asked me about music to go with this fic. And while I don't have any particular songs I keep in mind while writing, I have pulled together some tracks that I think sum up the Sherlock and Melanie's relationship into a playlist on Grooveshark. There's a link on my profile within the summaries section if you want to take a look. I may keep on adding to it if I suddenly remember another song._

_Review time again? The button's just there!_


	28. Inappropriate

**Twenty** **Eight**  
_**Inappropriate **_

Turns out I didn't feel like going back to my flat on Thursday after all.

At least I had made it in to work. I thought that deserved rather more praise from my boss than just 'Oh, you better, then? Good.' But what could I have expected? After all, he knew nothing about the whole police-murderer-shooting thing. He still thought I had had the flu.

But for me it was a huge step – getting back to something resembling normality. Doing something other than curling up in Sherlock's warm bed and remembering. In my head, I deserved a medal.

But after the first day back, full of jumping at every sudden noise and trying not to dwell on how many strangers were in the same building as me, I couldn't face going back to my empty apartment. I had to face it.

I just didn't feel safe without Sherlock around.

Even when I was trying to concentrate on a particularly fascinating antique from the Punjab, I found that a thought kept on popping up into my head. I wanted to be near him. Not even touching or speaking, just near.

This was getting too deep for my liking.

I would have to go back to mine tonight, though. Mrs. Hudson's washing machine was still broken from the incident with the small intestine (do not think about that, Melanie). I had only brought enough work clothes to last me one day technically, and although I could just about get away with wearing the same shirt twice in a row without washing it, I thought that three days may be pushing it slightly. And I doubted Sherlock would want to come with me and watch the clothes spin around in the dryer. Boring, he would say. Not worth his time.

So I would go back alone.

I shifted my slipping reading glasses higher up the bridge of my nose and inspected the checklist in front of me. I had been meaning to get this inventory done weeks ago, and had been planning to get ones of the interns to complete it for me. Now, however, I found it was the only thing I really wanted to do. Mainly because it meant spending hours upon hours locked in a storeroom on my own, where only employees had the keys. Safe, in other words.

Or as safe as I could get outside 221B.

I scribbled a note next to the box marked IM.342-DR5 that the item was still in the back room being restored, as I knew very well but hadn't been able to find documented anywhere.

The scratching of my pen on the paper was interrupted by a low humming drone. I put down my pen and reached into my pocket, pulling out the BlackBerry Mycroft had so generously donated to me – which seemed to have miraculously fixed itself so it was now able to make calls like any normal phone. Damn that man and his secret governmental technicians.

I opened it up to see that I had a new text message.

From John, according to the number.

_Meet me at Scotland Yard if not too busy.  
SH_

Alright, so Sherlock had either stolen John's phone again or was being too lazy to type for himself. Both of them seemed quite likely.

I frowned. What did Sherlock want me to go to Scotland Yard for? He usually didn't bother informing me when he made his casual visits to the station.

_Why?_

I texted back swiftly. Although I may be desperate to find any sort of excuse to run on back to him, even I wasn't stupid enough to abandon my work just for another one of Sherlock's whims without asking a few questions first. Sherlock's whims always warranted questions.

It was less than ten seconds before the phone buzzed again.

_Important. Come even if too busy.  
SH_

Oh, God.

What now?

* * *

I was so going to get fired if this continued.

My boss hadn't taken so well to me telling him that I had a family emergency and needed to leave, pointing out numerous times that this was only my second day of work this week. Also adding his disappointed views on my efforts and reliability over the past couple of weeks. But it honestly wasn't my fault! Well, some of it was my fault. But most of it wasn't. In fact, most of it was most definitely Sherlock's. And while I kept reminding myself that it was my actions that led to the Sherlock-related fiascos, it still helped to blame someone else. Even just a little bit.

I checked my watch again, glad that I had managed to shelter under the doorway before the rain had started. I hadn't gotten here that quickly. So where was Sherlock?

At last a trusty black cab pulled up to the curb in front of me and a tall, dark-haired figure climbed out.

"What's going on?" were the immediate words out of my mouth as he approached. My intrigue had increased to worry in his absence and I needed to find out just why I was here.

But Sherlock didn't appear to feel that I needed to know quite yet, instead just giving me a quick glance before pushing open the large glass doors and stepping into the impressive building. I followed as usual.

"Sherlock," I tried again as we walked calmly past the security on the desk and squeezed ourselves into the lift that was beginning to rise. "Would you please tell me what's happening? Is it about Monday night?"

Sherlock again ignored me. Christ that man could be annoying sometimes. Or all the time. Yeah, all the time was much more accurate.

The lift stopped with a shudder and the metallic doors slid open. I had to jog to keep up with Sherlock as he headed in a direction that I recognised far too well. He didn't even pause before shoving Lestrade's office door inwards.

"Uh, ye- Hang on a second." Lestrade said into the phone receiver as he frowned at Sherlock's brusque entrance. He peered up at the consulting detective, looking confused. "Sherlock? What is it?"

Yes, what _was_ it? Couldn't he at least give me a clue? Or an anagram? Or a bloody crossword for all I cared! Anything to let me know what was going on.

Sherlock stepped up to Lestrade's desk. I heard the door shut softly behind me as I waited. Sherlock apparently didn't feel any rush to speak.

Lestrade gave in first. "What Sherlock? I'm kind of busy here."

Silence for at least thirty seconds as we both waited with bated breath for Sherlock's incredible news. Finally he opened his mouth.

"I'm…" he said evenly, staring Lestrade right in the eyes. You could have cut the tension with a knife. "… bored."

_What_?

Was he… Did I… _Had he dragged me all the way out here because he was freaking bored_?

Lestrade stared blankly at him for a moment. He then, as if nothing at all had happened that was remotely out of the ordinary, lifted the receiver to his ear once more.

"Sorry about that, so they can be moved on t-"

Sherlock pressed down on the hook and disconnected the line. "I said I'm bored."

Lestrade looked stunned for a second, then that surprise was channelled into his annoyance. "Sherlock! That was an important call!"

Sherlock didn't seem bothered at all. "They'll call back in twenty seconds."

"That doesn't mean that you-"

"What cases have you got at the moment?" he interrupted unwaveringly. Lestrade took all of a second to just leer at Sherlock before he seemed to realise just who he was dealing with.

He sighed heavily, giving up on having a normal day for once. He waved a hand in the direction of a filing cabinet against the wall. "Oh, go see for yourself, why don't you?"

Sherlock had already started towards the cabinet. "I will."

The phone rang shrilly on Lestrade's desk. I was willing to bet my savings that it had been twenty seconds since Sherlock had cut off the call. Lestrade shook his head miserably and picked it up. "Sorry, must be a bad line or something. Anyway, you were sa-"

Sherlock dumped a huge pile of files onto the exact spot where Lestrade was trying to write something down. Lestrade jumped.

"Look, I'll call you back in a second. Thanks." He muttered darkly into the receiver. Sherlock was busy shuffling through the files. He didn't even notice as Lestrade stood and marched towards the door, shoving it open with a little more force than necessary. "Donovan, I'm using your desk!"

He disappeared, the door swinging shut after him. Sherlock went and sat in his abandoned seat.

I frowned.

"Why exactly do you need me here?"

Sherlock flicked open the top file in the pile, glanced at the contents and quickly closed it again, throwing it to the other side of the desk. "John's apparently busy working and Mrs. Hudson has confiscated my skull again."

And I was third choice to babysit this man? The answer was obviously yes.

"And you really needed someone-" Did I just call that foul skull '_someone'_? "-to talk at while you tried to find something to occupy yourself with, did you?"

Another file landed heavily on top of the first.

"Clearly." Sherlock answered.

I gritted my teeth. Did he really feel like he could interrupt me whenever he felt like it just because? Did he not think that maybe I had slightly more important things to do? Did he completely forget that I had to work like a normal human being to make money?

Of course he did.

And I had already told my boss I had to leave for the afternoon…

"Alright," I sighed, defeated by the detective's damned persistence once more, "what horrible crimes have been committed in London recently, then?"

* * *

The papers slammed down onto the table.

"What in God's name are all the criminals doing at the moment? Can't they at least try to be a bit more creative? It's so hideously dull."

I rolled my eyes. "Jeez, I'm sorry there aren't more serial killers loose on the streets, Sherlock."

In response Sherlock kicked over the bin like a properly mature adult should.

I scratched my forehead and stood. "Well, if you're going to act like a spoilt child then I'm going home."

"Fine." Sherlock resided with a grunt. "You can get my skull back from Mrs. Hudson."

I paused, his words sinking in. "Err… no, Sherlock, I meant _my_ home… as in my flat."

His head snapped around, the wrapping of his scarf around his neck forgotten. He looked at me for a second. I got the funniest feeling that he was trying to understand what was happening. Had he assumed I would automatically be staying at his again?

His face cleared of confusion. "Oh."

I blinked. For some reason, I needed to explain myself. "I've run out of clothes…"

"You're planning to return to Baker Street afterwards." It wasn't even a question, which was odd since I hadn't really thought about it myself.

"Um… I don't know…" I stumbled out, slightly nervous. I had no idea why, but this point seemed incredibly important. "Maybe… I mean, if you-"

Sherlock dramatically stood, picked up his coat, and began towards the exit. "I'll come with you."

I frowned. Why would he…?

"You want to help with my _washing_?"

* * *

Sherlock did_ not_ want to help with my washing.

That point was made perfectly clear in the taxi on the way over.

No, Sherlock just didn't like being bored.

I fumbled in my bag for my keys, finding the action curiously more difficult than it normally was. Well, there really wasn't anything curious about it. The answer was painstakingly obvious, if you looked at it.

I was so glad the policewoman wasn't patrolling outside my door anymore.

I finally managed to locate my keys and felt blindly for the lock they needed to be in with the hand that Sherlock hadn't suddenly decided he needed to grab and pull up above my head. I was almost certainly scratching the paint on my door with the keys, but doing anything else would have been physically impossible with the way Sherlock's arm had trapped my waist against him.

At last I heard the trusty clacking of metal on metal and managed to wrestle the key into the lock and twist. The door wasn't even open properly before we were stumbling through.

I lazily kicked off my heels as Sherlock guided me backwards – not very well of course since our journey was stopped when my arse connected painfully with what felt like the desk in my living room. I still couldn't be bothered to open my eyes and check.

Damn, this was the most annoying man I had ever met in my entire life, but that apparently didn't affect the skill level of his lips.

I jumped suddenly at the loud crash from nearby.

I jolted and instantly pried my mouth away from Sherlock, my head popping around and checking for danger, but my hands gripping tightly onto Sherlock's shirt in fear.

The noise had come from the kitchen half of the room.

Any thoughts of continuing in our current activities vanished as I saw who was standing there, the tattered remains of my favourite mug at his feet.

"_Dan_?"

* * *

_Sorry for the wait, time crept up on me and I forgot my beta was away from Fri to this morning. Next one will hopefully be quicker._

_Thanks guys for the suggestions for the playlist! Keep them coming if you want. I'll look at each one and see if I should add it or not! _

_Ok, important news._

_I have decided that since the storyline is progressing and soon there shall be no more time to add nice happy bits, I will make you guys a deal. After Chapter 30 I will write a special extra chapter containing any requested scenes that you may want to see (these could be anything, so get your thinking hats on) BUT only if this fic manages to get more than 100 faves before then. We've got a bit of a way to go, but I think it's achievable. _

_So get your clicking finger out and press the little button down there! _

_I'm actually really looking forward to reading any suggestions or requests you guys may have so start sending those in as well! Some of them will probably be a lot better than my ideas!_

_Wahey, it's like a competition or something, isn't it? Lol, and what a prize!_

_Til, next time!_


	29. Inconvenient

**Twenty** **Nine**  
_**Inconvenient **_

"Wha… What are you doing here?"

My words cut through the new silence that had taken hold of my apartment. But despite them, no one moved. I still perched on the edge of the desk. Sherlock still leant against me, his arms constricting my waist. And in the kitchen, standing bold as brass, the most shocked expression on his face I had ever seen, was the man I had so recently turned down a proposal from.

Christ almighty I was having a bad week.

"I thought… I mean…" I stumbled out, still in a state of alarm myself. "Dan? Why are you here?"

It was as if something went off in his head. The empty surprise wiped off of his face and was replaced by anger. Pure anger.

"_Who the hell is he?"_

He was pointing at Sherlock. I realised just how wrong this scenario was. I wrestled my hands away from Sherlock's chest and attempted to shrug him off and stand. Apparently Sherlock wasn't very happy about this and it took a good few tries to finally get one of his hands away from me. But even then he was still gripping me a little too tightly.

"Sherlock, please!" I said in exasperation.

Sherlock grunted and glared at me. I stared right back, positive that this was not one of the times I'd be bending to his will. It seemed to work as at last he let go and slunk away, collapsing in an elegant heap on the sofa.

I noticed how he was eyeing Dan.

"Sherlock?" Dan spat out, sounding rather deranged, "Who the hell is Sherlock?"

Sherlock sighed. "I am, obviously. I can see now why Melanie never grew attached to you. Your powers of reasoning are excruciatingly poor."

"Sherlock!"

Dan looked affronted. He must have felt the need to defend himself. "What do you mean by that?"

Sherlock didn't move but I swear I saw the tiniest of flinches in the corner of his lips, which I noticed were stained vaguely red from my lip stick. If he noticed, that would not help Dan's mood. "My point proved."

"You-"

"Sherlock, would you shut up and let me think for a second?" I shouted.

"What is there to think abo-"

"_I said shut up!" _

For once in his life, Sherlock did as told. But I could see it there, in the way he sat and leered at Dan, that his silence was only temporary. He was only buying his time until his next attack. And I was certain it would be a nasty one. As I had pointed out only a few days ago – Sherlock didn't share his toys.

Oh, God.

"Mel," I turned and looked at Dan. His voice was soft now, and almost worried about something. I frowned as he tried to ask the question that was clearly bugging him so much. "How long… Where'd you… Is he the reason you said no?"

I blinked in surprise. "What? Of course not!"

"Well, it hasn't exactly been very long since you and I…" he trailed off. But I got what he was implying.

"And that naturally means I was cheating on you?" I could barely believe he was even suggesting that. I didn't cheat. Did he not know me at all? The answer to that, of course, was my own damn fault.

Dan seemed to become annoyed again, his voice rising. "Well, seeing as it took four months of dating before I was allowed to see the inside of your flat and it's been hardly six weeks since we broke up, it seems a bit odd to me that he can wander in so freely and-"

"That's because Sherlock-"

"Clearly fulfils Melanie's needs in ways you never did."

My head snapped around to glare icily at the calmly sitting man on my couch. What on _earth_ did he just say?

"No, because Sherlock broke into my flat like a psychopath only a few hours after we first met!"

That wiped the smirk off of his face.

"Huh?" Dan asked confused as he glanced between me and Sherlock.

"And as for you!" I continued yelling at the detective angrily. "You could've given me a warning that he was here! I'm sure you were able to deduce it from the placement of my doormat or something ridiculous!"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly. "I was a little bit busy, in case you hadn't noticed."

"Oh, go and wait next door, you giant bloody genius." I barked in frustration. Sherlock didn't move. "I mean it! _Now_!"

For a moment I thought Sherlock was going to ignore me again, but suddenly he huffed and stood, skulking with as much dignity as he could muster across the room and into the bedroom. I noticed he didn't close the door completely behind him. Didn't anyone ever tell him that eavesdropping was naughty?

I rubbed my forehead. What in God's name had happened to my life? A few weeks ago the most dramatic moment was when a bulb blew or my laptop ran out of battery. And now… Well, things were certainly more complicated with Sherlock around.

"What do you want, Dan?" I asked, maybe sounding a little rude, but I really didn't care. I was too exhausted for that.

It took Dan a minute to reply. I could practically feel his pained expression as he thought about how quickly I had moved on. "I did try to call-"

"I've lost my phone." I interjected.

Dan raised an eyebrow. "And you haven't checked your landline messages in three days?"

"I've been busy."

Something obviously clicked in his brain. He eyed me briefly from head to toe, as if trying to work something out in his mind.

"Have you not been home?" he asked sounding genuinely surprised.

I so did not want to get into this right now. "What do you want?"

But Dan wasn't finished. He had just come to the conclusion I knew Sherlock would have spotted in under a second had the roles been reversed. "Have you been staying at his place? I thought you couldn't sleep well in a different bed!"

"_Dan_!" I snapped, having had enough of this conversation to last me a life time. I could already feel the beginning of a migraine in the base of my cranium. "_Why_ are you here?"

It looked as if he was going to point something else out – like maybe how I had not once kissed him like I had been Sherlock, or perhaps how I would never have put up with him had he been saying the things Sherlock had – anything really, to make me feel more guilty about the situation. But he didn't. His words stopped before they had left his mouth, his eyes closing and his shoulders drooping miserably.

"I just came to pick up my things." He answered quietly. "I thought you'd still be at work. I didn't expect…"

I bit the inside of my cheek. I wasn't nervous about Dan, and I didn't even feel guilty about Sherlock, but there was something in me when I looked at this defeated man standing in my apartment. Pity. And I was the reason for that pity.

"Yeah," I replied in an equally sombre tone, "neither did I."

The awkwardness settled over the situation, each of us not thinking of anything remotely suitable to say in the circumstances. Finally something came to Dan.

"How long have you and him been…?" This time his quiet question was just that – a question and not an accusation.

I shrugged half-heartedly, feeling the tension in the room. "Not long."

He gave a small nod. "How did you meet?"

I let out a sad syllable of a laugh. "Long story, trust me."

He frowned slightly. "And he really broke into your apartment?"

I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, that's Sherlock."

"And you-"

"Look," I cut his question off, trying to be as gentle as possible. I was scared if I even raised my voice a fraction he would shatter into a thousand pieces. "I know you don't really want to talk about this."

Dan didn't move. He stood and stared resolutely at the floor several feet in front of me, as if he didn't want to even look me in the eyes as he spoke.

"Yeah," he agreed in not much more than a whisper, "I guess you're right."

I kept my gaze on him, not knowing what I could do to make this any easier for either of us. And I did want to make this easier for him. No one enjoys seeing someone in pain because of what they did. I doubted even some of the most sadistic criminals around would want to be standing in my place right about now. But honestly, what was there to say? Somehow 'Hey, Dan, how's your life at the moment?' didn't just cut it.

We were both knocked out of our thoughts by a loud thud emanating from the bedroom.

"Sherlock?" I called instinctively.

There was a second's pause before I got my reply.

"_Bored!_"

I sighed heavily, but couldn't help the tiny trace of a smile reaching my lips. "That doesn't give you permission to dismantle my furniture!"

I didn't get a response.

Dan blinked and looked around, being brought out of his contemplations by the noise and noticing the remains of the porcelain mug by his feet.

"Oh, God, sorry." He mumbled apologetically as he reached down and picked up the larger pieces of china. "I know it was your favourite."

"Don't worry about it."

"No, I'll, err," he said in a much more normal voice as he dumped the shards into the bin. "I'll clean this up for you."

He automatically went over to and pulled open the cupboard under the sink and retrieved the dustpan and brush I kept there. I watched, uncertain of what to do, as he leant down and sweeped up any of the little flakes of white. It took a minute for him to gather them all and return the dustpan to its rightful place.

"Thanks." I managed out.

He wiped a hand through his dirty blonde hair, his eyes twitching all over the flat. "I, umm… I've already got everything I need so…"

Another heavy thud from the bedroom.

"Sherlock, what did I just tell you?" I yelled, not wanting to know what on earth he was doing in there without me there to oversee him.

Dan laughed pathetically. Something oddly maternal in me wanted to run over and hug him. I shook that thought from me.

He plucked the large duffle bag from the kitchen table and swung it over his shoulder. "I guess I'll be going, then."

"Oh, err, right." I stuttered out surprised at the brisk nature of the visit.

He finally looked up and stared at me, some expression in his hazel eyes that I hadn't seen before. He nodded once and I recognised that nod. It was the same one I had been using far too much recently. It was the nod of convincing yourself to do something you really didn't want to do, but you knew you had to.

I saw him turn away and decisively start towards the hallway. He only made it two steps before pausing and turning back to me. He dug a hand into his jeans pocket.

"Your key."

He closed the gap between us and let me take the small gold object from his grasp without complaint.

"Right." I whispered, not really noticing what it was I was agreeing to.

Dan peered at me, a morose frown taking hold over his face. "You're alright, then?"

I saw the significance of that question. It wasn't just a simple inquiry about my current mood or the state of my life. It was so much more than those trivialities.

And I didn't get why.

"I'm fine." It came out as a reassuring undertone. And for some reason, despite everything that was happing in my life at the moment and the complete mess I had landed myself in – I believed it. Dan gave me a final smile before turning and making his way out into the hall. I heard the door creak softly open, heard the change in footfall as he stepped out onto the wooden floorboards beyond, and finally heard the gentle click of the door shutting behind him.

He and his things were gone from my flat.

I stood there for a moment, trying to get my head around that idea and not coming up with any sort of logical explanation, before my ponderings were interrupted yet again by a stark thump echoing from where I assumed my bedroom used to be.

I sighed.

"Sherlock, what the hell are you doing in there?"

* * *

_Originally I was going to make that more funny, but it just didn't seem right in the end to have it like that. I dunno, did you guys think it was too bland and grey?_

_Anyways, we're on our way to 100 faves, but we're still not there yet, so if you guys want the special request chapter get busy. If you don't and think it's an awful idea let me know and we'll scrap it. Start sending in your ideas though! I wanna read them!_


	30. Inigo

**Thirty**  
_**Inigo**_

I awoke to the harsh sound of electronic beeping echoing from somewhere nearby. Reluctantly I stretched open my eyes and peered upwards to where the sound was coming from, far too comfy in my familiar soft bed to actually move.

It was still dark, so the sun couldn't have risen yet; my pale curtains weren't heavy enough to block out the rays. And yet the hazy blue light made the source of the bleeping perfectly obvious.

"Morning." I mumbled sleepily, guessing that it was indeed past midnight.

Sherlock didn't reply, the glow from his phone highlighting his concentrated face as he instead busily tapped away at the screen. I was far too used to his silence by now to be bothered by it. I shifted and rolled off of my stomach and onto my side so that I could look at him without damaging my neck muscles.

"Are you fully dressed?" I asked suddenly with a frown, taking in what the blue light was showing me. Sherlock just continued to sit there, propped up by my pillows and leaning against my headboard. Guessing that I wasn't going to get an answer any time soon, I lifted up the duvet and checked for myself. My frown deepened. "Yeah, most people don't wear a suit to bed, Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't take his eyes away from the screen in front of him. "My pyjamas are in still in my flat."

I cocked an eyebrow. "That doesn't mean you wear a suit."

"I'm not sleeping so why should it matter?"

I chuckled and rolled onto my back, staring up at the faintly cobalt ceiling. "Oh, sorry, I forgot I was speaking to the New York of human beings."

"What?" he asked confused.

"You know – never sleeps? As in- Oh, never mind." I gave up, knowing Sherlock would only forget the nickname anyway. Not important to his database.

After a minute or two of just lying there, letting the warmth of the covers seep into my pores and almost send me back to dreamland again, I decided that I didn't trust Sherlock enough to leave him awake and bored in my apartment without a supervisor. God, I just hoped he hadn't ripped out my oven while I'd been sleeping.

I shoved myself up and checked the clock on the bedside table. Five fifteen, not as bad as I thought it might be. Sherlock had actually let me sleep for over six hours.

I slipped out of my bed and started pulling my dressing gown around me. "I'm going to make some tea. Do you want any?"

"Please."

* * *

The small light on the kettle shone red as I collected two mugs from the cupboard and placed them on the countertop. I reached over and dumped two tea bags into the cups.

"Scrap the tea."

I turned and saw a happily bouncing Sherlock hurrying over to the sofa and collecting his coat. That happiness could only mean one thing.

"New case." He confirmed.

Oh, god, not again.

"Dead bodies?" I asked tentatively, uncertain as to whether I actually wanted to hear the answer.

Sherlock finished shrugging on his coat and started wrapping the scarf around his neck. "Missing cat."

I almost knocked over one of the mugs.

"Missing _cat_?" I sputtered in disbelief. "Why would _you_ be interested in a missing cat? Or is it a horribly mutilated missing cat?"

Sherlock gave me a patronizing stare. "Engage is not measured by level of mutilation, Melanie."

I scoffed. "Well, I know that! But you on the other hand-"

Sherlock walked out of the door, leaving me standing beside the kettle in bewilderment, my sentence unfinished. Damn. I supposed I had to be grateful that he had told me he was going at all and not in his excitement simply jumped out of the bedroom window and broken his leg. Although Sherlock probably knew exactly how to land so that his leg would remain completely intact. Damn again. And what on earth was Sherlock doing investigating a missing cat? It probably just got run over or moved to a different owner. That's what Oliver did-

"Almost forgot."

I jumped and noticed that Sherlock had somehow got into my apartment silently again.

He took several long strides towards me before taking my hand and pressing something cold into the palm. I looked down in confusion.

"What's this?"

"I would have thought that was obvious." He answered helpfully. I frowned, turning over the single silver key and inspecting it.

"Is this to your flat?" I asked carefully. "Why would you-" And then it hit me. My face dropped. The competitive git. "This is because Dan had my key, isn't it?"

Sherlock started towards the door again. "No. It's clearly so you do not have to continue disturbing Mrs. Hudson."

He left before I could say anything else. I rolled my eyes and sighed.

Because I so believed that.

* * *

It was raining when I left the museum that evening, and not just the odd warm shower. I ran from the bus stop to the front porch, the icy water pummelling against my coat as I attempted to shield my head the best I could with my scarf. It wasn't the most effective of actions and I cursed for the umpteenth time leaving my umbrella at home. For once, I was extremely grateful for Sherlock's childish personality; at least it meant I didn't have to wait on the doorstep for an elderly woman to get to the door, assuming she was in, anymore.

221B appeared to be empty. Sherlock was probably running all over London trying to catch the fabled missing cat. God, if he caught a cold I was not playing nurse. A sick Sherlock was almost certainly more than I, or no doubt anyone, could handle.

I hung my now sopping coat up and draped my scarf over the nearest radiator to help it dry quicker. Sadly I couldn't do the same with the rest of me. My clothes were damp, my hair was drenched, and every now and then a freezing droplet of water would fall from the end of my nose.

What I needed was a long, steaming hot shower and a change of clothes.

I just hoped the bathroom was currently a dismembered-body-parts-free-zone.

* * *

The soft carpet buried my bare feet as I padded down the stairs, feeling considerably refreshed and revitalised, as they always say in those advertisements. The oversized t-shirt and chunky cardigan may not have been the most attractive things in the world, but they were warm and comfy, and it wasn't as if I needed to impress anybody here.

I finished securing my wet hair at the back of my scalp and pushed open the living room door, planning to make a far too sweet and excruciatingly milky cup of tea before curling up on the sofa with a book. I didn't even make it two steps into the room.

"Err… what?" escaped from my lips.

My eyes swept across the messy room uncertainly. How long had I been in the bathroom? Surely not long enough for this to happen?

"I'm hallucinating, aren't I?" I made out after a good twenty seconds of standing in shock. "The stress has finally gotten to me and I've gone psychotic."

"Pass me a pen."

"Oh dear lord, this is real, isn't it?"

Sherlock didn't look up, but continued to kneel as he perused over what looked like a large Ordinance Survey map spread across the floor space he had cleared. "Pen, Melanie."

I shook my head to try to clear the fog that was starting to form there. I went over and picked up the pen that wasn't even a foot away from Sherlock's hand, passing it to him before standing upright again. I bit my bottom lip and scanned the room one more time to make sure I hadn't been mistaken.

"Sherlock," I spoke up nervously, "can I ask you one tiny little question?"

"Hmm?" was the only answer I got.

I frowned, more than a little uncertain.

"Why is there what looks like twenty five cats currently climbing all over the living room furniture?"

Sherlock made a large cross through one of the streets on the map. "Twenty eight, actually."

I took a deep breath, trying to remain calm. "Alright, same question but replace the five with an eight."

Sherlock crossed out another street calmly. "Experiment."

I tilted my head to the side and pursed my lips together. One of the twenty eight aforementioned felines – a rather fine tortoiseshell specimen – jumped up onto the back the armchair next to me and began mewing persistently. I scratched its neck and it purred lovingly in response.

"Do I want to know what on?" I asked, surprising myself on just how well I was taking this. I must have been hanging around Sherlock too often. It most definitely wasn't an everyday occurrence to come back down after having a shower in a supposedly empty apartment to find that the man you're sleeping with has filled the living room with twenty eight cats of varying sizes and breeds. It wasn't even an once-in-a-lifetime sort of occurrence, really. It was the kind of occurrence you'd only ever see if you happened to know Sherlock Holmes.

"I doubt it." Sherlock answered plainly.

That could not be good.

A horrible thought crossed my mind. It was clearly a thought spurned from watching too many TV detective dramas. My stomach twisted itself into a knot. "Sherlock, this better not be a case of measuring how long you have to starve a cat before it resorts to eating a corpse."

"Don't be ridiculous."

I sighed in relief. At least he wasn't starving innocent animals now.

"I completed my research on that years ago."

Oh, shit.

"Not very high-functioning." I mumbled, trying to push that thought to the side. I rounded the armchair and begrudgingly shooed away the grumpy ginger tabby that was sleeping there, instead taking the spot for myself. The ginger groaned in annoyance and slouched away, finally settling for curling up on a cushion in front of the fireplace instead. The tortoiseshell happily popped down from the back of the chair and started circumnavigating my lap, clawing away at my legs as it did.

"Where did you even get them from?" I asked as the creature at last came to the conclusion that my lap was indeed good enough to collapse onto. I stroked the top of its head.

"Battersea."

I raised my eyebrows in surprise. "Battersea Cats' Home just let you wander in and pick up thirty cats without even a background check first?"

"Twenty eight." Sherlock corrected me again.

"I was rounding up!"

"Don't. It's a frightful habit." He said sternly, crossing off yet another street from the large map. A white kitten leapt onto the desk and sent several books toppling to the floor. It jumped and hid under the sofa in fear of the loud noise. Sherlock ignored it. "Precision is always of the utmost importance, Melanie."

I rubbed my forehead in despair. "Sherlock, why did Battersea let you have all these cats?"

It was a few seconds before he replied.

"They didn't."

What?

"You mean…" I started slowly before actually coming to a conclusion that would actually make sense. My mouth fell open. Had he _stolen_ twenty eight freaking cats from the oldest animal shelter in the UK? "Oh, sweet Jesus! How the hell did you even get them here?"

The clock on the mantelpiece struck the hour. The skinny black and white short-hair that was perched in the usual place of the confiscated skull bounded to its feet and started hissing at it fiercely.

"It was a perfectly simple task if you think about it logically."

Really? How was smuggling twenty eight cats half-way across London a simple task? He couldn't have exactly taken them in a cab, and somehow I couldn't really imagine Sherlock driving. At least I hoped he hadn't driven. The roads would not be a safe place with Sherlock as a white van man.

There was a growl and a large Russian blue darted out from underneath the sofa, succeeding in climbing a good four feet up the curtains with its claws, before pulling the whole rail off its perch and onto the floor. Mrs. Hudson was not going to be a happy bunny when she came home. The Russian blue stuck its head out from underneath the material sheepishly, glancing around to see if anyone had noticed.

"Does John even know about this?" I said as the new question occurred to me.

"Sure."

I narrowed my eyes sceptically. "_Sherlock_…"

"He will soon enough."

A took a look around the chaotic space; fur and whiskers covering every possible surface, large scratches dotted across the furniture, piles of knocked over clutter littering the floor, and meows, growls, purrs and hisses seeping from all corners of the room.

"No shit, Sherlock."

* * *

"_We are getting rid of them now!"_

"It's for an important experiment, John. Someone's career hangs in the balance." Sherlock answered matter-of-factly.

"I don't care, I want them out!" John shouted in return, pointing wildly at any of the critters he could.

"It's not as if they're any trouble."

John scoffed angrily. "_Trouble_? Our entire living room's in ruins!"

As if to confirm his point, a shaggy long-hair knocked a plate off of the kitchen table and it crashed to the floor. Sherlock continued to stare at the wall in front of him. "Yes, but besides that."

"Besides that I'm allergic!" John countered.

"I don't see how you can possibly blame me for that."

A friendly grey started wrapping itself around John's ankles. He sneezed violently. I noticed how his eyes were already beginning to turn slightly red. He took a large sniff.

"I want them out of here by the time I come down for breakfast tomorrow!" he ordered harshly. "Otherwise I'm telling Mrs. Hudson to permanently destroy that skull of yours!"

"No, you're not."

"_Just you try me!"_ John let out before storming out of the room, the door slamming loudly behind him. His hurried footsteps got fainter and fainter as he climbed the stairs, presumably to go take a large dose of antihistamines and try to sleep through the worst part of this ordeal. I couldn't really blame him.

I slumped down onto the sofa next to where Sherlock was sitting, his gaze focused on the snapshots of evidence pinned to the wall above the fireplace.

"Are you going to take the cats back to Battersea before the morning?" I asked hopefully, but not really anticipating a positive answer. Sherlock would keep the cats for as long as the experiment needed them. Nothing was going to stop that. Not even a threat to Sherlock's prized skull.

Sherlock grasped his hands in front of his face in thought. He wasn't listening to me. "But cats are attached to location not person…"

"Really?"

"Never mind." He quickly dismissed. Clearly his thoughts were far too complicated for little old me to understand.

A rather pretty black cat leapt agilely onto the sofa, its long limbs barely scraping the material before it had dumped itself squarely in the centre of Sherlock's lap, where it curled up tightly. Sherlock jumped ever so slightly at the sudden visitor. He drew his eyes away from the wall and peered down at the thing making its home on his legs, an odd look on his face.

"Does it want something?"

I chuckled lightly. "It's a cat, Sherlock. It's what they do. Well, most of them… It's probably to do with the warmth."

Sherlock's frown deepened. "There's a radiator over there."

I rolled my eyes. He really didn't get animals, did he?

"Maybe he wants attention then." I reached out a hand towards the silky lump, going to scratch behind its ear, but before my fingers got within five inches of its fur, the thing suddenly woke up and hissed violently at me, warning me not to try anything funny. Like touching it. I swiftly redrew my arm. "Or maybe not."

Sherlock eyed it in confusion. "Why does it think my thighs would make a suitable replacement for a bed?"

My first thought to that question was that they were rather nice thighs so it wasn't that bizarre, but then I realised just how stupid that sounded and shut up. I could see that Sherlock's muscles were all strangely tense.

"Just try to relax and think of it as a furry hot water bottle." I said calmly.

"One with a powerful bite and retractable claws."

My eyebrows rose.

No, surely not.

"Sherlock Holmes," I started while attempting not to burst into giggles, "are you frightened a cute little kitty-cat?"

The only reply to that I got was a small grunt from somewhere suspiciously near Sherlock's throat. As if challenging me to mock him further, he bravely gathered all the courage in the world and brought his hand down, so that he was, indeed, petting the ferocious small domestic pet.

I sighed. "Not like that, Sherlock, he's not a stress ball."

I reached over to stop Sherlock from ripping the skin off of the creature, but I had barely moved before the beast had shot open its bright green eyes and hissed at me again, this time taking a warning strike with its paw to emphasize its point. When it was certain I wasn't going to make a grab for it, the cat settled back down and deep pleasurable hums began droning from its form as Sherlock continued to stroke its back in what I would have thought was a bruising grip.

I stared in disbelief. "Why does he like you and not me?"

Sherlock didn't say anything, but continued to gaze down at the happy little bundle of joy on his lap. And that's when I spotted it. A smile rose immediately to my lips at the thought.

The way Sherlock always coiled his body around when he was sulking or sleeping. The way he could jump out of a second storey window and land perfectly on his feet. The way he only really ever put up with other humans when he wanted something. His impassiveness. His determination. His plain-old bag of crazy.

I could practically hear the purrs echoing from his larynx as he contently stroked the cat in front of him.

A bark of laughter escaped my mouth.

Sherlock looked at me questioningly. "Yes?"

I bit back any more chuckles. "Oh, nothing."

The similarities really were endless.

"How about Inigo?"

I snapped back down to earth. "Huh?"

Sherlock was back to inspecting the photographs of the crime scene above the fireplace. I therefore assumed he was talking about the case when he next said, "As a name."

I was not getting this.

"A name for what?" I asked puzzled. The ever so friendly thing perched on Sherlock's lap answered for him with a loud meow. I realised what was going on. I couldn't hold back the laughter this time. "You- you want to name the cat? Seriously? _You_?"

Sherlock turned his head and glared at me.

My chortles diminished into silent sobbing movements as I tried to calm down.

No doubt this was an extremely serious matter for Sherlock.

I smiled at him gently, not wanting to ruin this moment for him.

"Yes, Sherlock, Inigo would be fine."

* * *

_Sorry if that kind of dwindled off towards the end, but it's 1am and I'm tired. _

_Long time, I know, I know. Sorry. Busy and all. _

_So apparently you guys don't like the whole request chapter thing so I'm scrapping the idea. Apologies if you wanted it, but if that was the case you should have sent ideas in before it was too late. _

_Hope all you UKers are watching the repeats of Sherlock on BBC3 atm. I am. Even though I've already watched all the episodes at least twice. Damn I need a life._

_Anyways, reviews would be nice as always._


	31. Inexorable

**Thirty** **One**  
_**Inexorable**_

I was grateful as I walked into the living room the following morning to find it a clowder of cats free area. At least I wouldn't have to fight my way through fur to reach the kettle anymore. Plus there wasn't any further danger of accidently frying someone's tail in the toaster. That was not a nice smell.

And it hurt the animal of course. I couldn't forget that.

Not unless I wanted to become Sherlock's Mini Me.

It was faintly surprising he had actually gotten rid of the creatures like John had asked. Maybe he was learning? Or maybe they did something to annoy him and he got angry. Unfortunately, the latter seemed more likely. I could only hope he had bothered to give them back to Battersea and not left them all in a wheelie bin somewhere.

I dumped the soggy teabag into the bin and dropped the teaspoon with a clang into the sink, taking the hot mug with me as I navigated my way around to the nearest armchair. It was pretty late on Sunday morning; John and Sherlock were probably out on another of their wild quests already. I kind of wished I could be out having fun like them, but sadly my work beckoned. I flipped open John's laptop and switched it on, remembering the password Sherlock had told me a few days ago. God, using my day off to catch up on work – what was the world coming to?

Hang on, did I just call Sherlock's near-fatal adventures fun?

"_Ow!_"

My thoughts were knocked out of my head as my left leg jerked forwards instinctively. I squinted down at my ankle and saw the small trickle of blood running down its back. What? I quickly slid off the chair and knelt beside it, peering underneath to see what had caused my leg to spontaneously start bleeding.

And there it was.

Curled up, its green eyes wide and haunches raised defensively, its needle-sharp claws drawn in preparation of another strike…

"What the hell are you still doing here?" I asked out loud in surprise.

Inigo took another swipe at me.

* * *

I had given up after an hour and simply walked out of the flat. There was no way I was ever going to get any work done with that thing around. Either it seemed to think that whichever seat I chose to sit in was the perfect place to practise its hunting or it really didn't like me. It probably just got its kicks out of hurting innocent people, the psychopath.

Getting into an argument with a cat, maybe I was going insane.

Walking out hadn't been the most sensible thing to do, of course, especially since I was in such a rush I had forgotten my (because it was clearly mine now Mycroft hadn't chosen to drop by and collect it) BlackBerry, only managing to escape with my small handbag before the deranged fur ball scratched my eyes out.

And so, after my leisurely lunch at the library café where I was trying to work, I found myself heading back into the pits of doom. I'd just pick up what I needed and head out again. No need to even see the thing.

And now I was scared of a cat. Great.

But the flat wasn't empty like I thought it would be.

"Sherlock, why is that thing still here?" I asked, trying to remain as calm as possible.

Sherlock didn't open his eyes or move. "I believe it's customary to say hello when entering someone's apartment."

"_You're_ telling me this?" I said with a roll of my eyes. I folded my arms and looked down at the man sprawled out on the sofa, his hands raised in prayer in front of his stoic face. It would have been a completely normal position for Sherlock, if it hadn't been for the breathing ball of black silk sleeping on his stomach.

"And he is not a thing. He has a name."

I frowned. Did that cat have magic powers or something that only affected sociopathic detectives? Sherlock didn't consider anyone's name or status of being a person important. Everyone was a _thing_ to him. "Alright, why is Inigo still here?"

"I thought you liked cats."

I stood my ground. "That beast is not a cat."

"Yes, it is." He answered plainly.

I shook my head in bewilderment, a crazy and terrifying thought crossing my mind. "Sherlock, you cannot be thinking of keeping him?"

That caused Sherlock to actually grant me the honour of glimpsing his open eyes. He raised his eyebrows questioningly. "Why not?"

"John's allergic to start with."

"Not important." He dismissed automatically. One of my hands flew upwards as I begun scratching my forehead in annoyance.

"Alright then," I started, trying to think of any reason not to have that cat around any longer. Several came to mind, but I knew that Sherlock wouldn't appreciate or recognise most of them. I settled on using the one thing Sherlock did value – logic. "Besides that, Inigo is a living creature."

"Obviously."

"One which requires food. _You_ can barely remember to feed yourself, how are you meant to look after something else?"

Sherlock didn't hesitate with a solution. "You'll remind me."

"No, I won't." My gaze hardened and I responded evenly, emphasizing each word so that he might get the message. "And what about all those times you're running around London for days on end? How's Inigo going to manage then?"

Sherlock paused.

A smirk started rising on my face. I had him with that. He stared resolutely at the ceiling, a slight frown the only indication that he was trying to worm himself out of this one. Whatever he came up with was not going to work here. No matter the ridiculous idea or ludicrous arguments. I was not budging.

Suddenly, he spoke.

"Ok, then."

My face wiped itself clean.

Huh?

I blinked several times, trying to get what he had just said. I wasn't coming up with anything that made sense.

"Ok, what?" I at last asked. I had been positive he was going to put up more of a fight than that.

"Ok, I won't keep Inigo." He reiterated.

I shook my head, thoroughly confused. Had I just won? No, that was impossible; it was far too quick a turnaround from Sherlock. He never just gave up like that. He was the annoying stubborn child that always got his way. Was he… Was he _growing up_?

Sherlock sat up dramatically, forcing Inigo to bounce onto the floor moodily, with a little grumbling growl. He stared at me firmly.

Uh, oh.

"You will."

"What?" I must have lost thread of the conversation.

Sherlock sighed, probably frustrated at how stupid I was being. "You will look after Inigo."

I didn't move. "Again… what?"

"Oh, come on, Melanie! This is a perfectly simple concept for you to grasp!" he gazed at me, willing me to get where he was going. When it became clear that I was at a complete loss of what to do or say he kindly elaborated. "I will relinquish all ownership of Inigo and he will instead live with you."

My mind snapped back to earth as my attention was drawn to the creature besides the fireplace. Inigo was currently sharpening his claws menacingly on John's favourite jumper.

I turned back to Sherlock. "Uh, no."

"Yes."

"No, Sherlock, that cat has to go back to where it came from." Which was hopefully someplace secure and far away from me. Cats didn't escape from Battersea often, did they? "Why are you so desperate about this?"

Sherlock was silent for a moment, looking as if debating whether he could actually tell me the truth on this matter or not. If that was the case, then the answer was either scary or hurtful to his pride. I hoped it was the latter. Sherlock could do with a few knocks to his ego. I, however, could not cope with any more frights.

Sherlock finally flung himself back onto the sofa with a deflated huff. "He won't leave."

That answered that question then. Sherlock Holmes, the bizarre genius who struggled to make any friends, couldn't get rid of a cat?

"And what makes you think he'll come with me?" I asked disbelievingly, thinking more about my immediate problem than how Inigo had gotten the better of the man in front of me. "I spent the entire morning trying not to get mauled to death by that thing!"

"And?"

"And strange though it must seem to you, I'd rather not be scratched to ribbons in the middle of the night by my own pet!"

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. "Don't be so melodramatic. Inigo is perfectly tame."

Inigo started growling fiercely at something out the window.

I picked up the BlackBerry from the armchair and glared at Sherlock, trying to see a way of making him understand.

"No, Sherlock, I am not having that cat as a pet. That's final."

* * *

Three climatic beeps broke through the silence in my flat. Obediently, I pushed the large rectangular button and the microwave door popped open eagerly in response. I picked up the large jacket potato inside and quickly brought it out and dropped it onto the plate nearby, trying to burn my fingers as little as possible in the process.

Jacket potato and tuna – not the most exciting supper in the world, but it was the easiest thing I could manage out of what scraps were found in my cupboards. I seriously needed to go shopping. Just because Sherlock and John seemed to live off takeaways and bread did not mean I should too.

I lifted the tinned tuna and had just managed to open the ring pull on top when a subtle cough from nearby made me jump. I spun around, already half-expecting the culprit.

"Sherlock, how the hell do you do that? It's not li-" I stopped dead, my face darkening. It wasn't as if I wasn't used to Sherlock popping up silently by now, and his appearance in my living room wasn't anything unusual, but I had just noticed something very troublesome. Propped up underneath his right arm, was an extremely ominous large cardboard box. "What's that?"

The box growled.

"Oh, God, it's not-"

"I'm leaving for Minsk tonight." He interrupted brusquely. I blinked.

"What?" I asked, distracted from my previous thoughts. "You're going to Belarus?"

"Yes."

I frowned. As if Sherlock wasn't unpredictable enough already, now I needed to add impulsive world explorer to the growing list of peculiarities. "Why?"

"Possible case." He told me plainly before pausing in contemplation for a moment. He then elaborated. "Involving cadavers."

Well, if that didn't stop me asking any more questions on the matter…

"Oh, err," this was all rather sudden, making it kind of difficult for me to think of what I should say or do, "When will you be back?"

Sherlock's eyes focused on the ceiling above him. "Probably tomorrow; the case sounds atrociously dull. I doubt I'll take it."

"Then why are you going?"

Sherlock seemed to ponder this for a second, as if not sure of the answer himself.

"I've never been to Belarus." Yeah, because you could see an entire country in a day, couldn't you? That was a stupid reason, even by Sherlock's standards. "Plus John won't shut up if I don't."

That was more like Sherlock.

"Err, ok then, I suppo-" I halted and shook my head, my mind struggling to come back to me. I remembered what I had been saying before all this Minsk nonsense had started. The threatening cardboard box loomed into my vision. I pointed at it accusingly. "Sherlock, that better not be-"

"I'll see you soon." He butted in, placing the box onto my kitchen table even as the words tumbled out.

"You mean- Is that- You're just-" I stammered out in shock as the man calmly began making his way towards the door. In answer to my worries, the box emanated with a large angry meow.

Oh, good Lord, no.

"You cannot just dump a deranged cat on my lap like this!" I yelled as I ran after him, through the miniature hallway and out of the front door, not even bothering to put on my shoes. "Sherlock! Why the hell are you so damn fast? Look, if you can get him out of the flat then why don't you- Do not get in that taxi, young man! Sherlock, if you shut that door… Don't you dare drive away from me! I'm warning you now…

"_Oh, you bloody sodding git!"_

* * *

_Reeaaally sorry about the wait on this one, I know it was an insane amount of time, but personal problems got in the way of writing. I'm letting you know that they're still not completely resolved, so we'll have to see when the next one's out. Hopefully, it won't be that long._

_Also, I don't think this one was that good. Gah. And I'm having second thoughts about the plot line I had previously thought up, not sure if it works well or not. We'll see. We'll see._

_Anyways, reviews yeah?_


	32. Indication

**Thirty** **Two**  
_**Indication **_

I had put off letting the cat out of the bag – or cardboard box to be more precise – for as long as possible. It was only when the screeching yowls got demanding enough for me to actually feel sorry for the thing that I gave in and carefully cut through the brown packing tape and lifted the hole-punched lid. I soon wished I hadn't. I had thought that by sharing my tuna dinner with the beast it might have actually felt some sort of camaraderie between us. But apparently not. My cushion would never be the same again.

It was probably for this reason why I was so keen to stay at work for as long as I could the next day, which was going to be a long time since someone had chosen to wake me up at four in the morning by jumping claws first onto my feet and I didn't particularly feel like hanging around after that. So it was late when I left the museum, and even later by the time I got home. It was certainly past ten, anyways.

Who knew that the thing to put me back on track with my work would be a stupid cat?

I found myself wondering idling whether Sherlock had indeed gotten back today as I unlocked and pushed open my front door. He hadn't texted me or let me know anything about his trip to Minsk, but then again, that wasn't really something Sherlock would do. I could only hope he hadn't gotten into too much trouble with the State Security Agency of the Republic of Belarus. No doubt they wouldn't appreciate having his nose stuck into their business all that much.

I left the little hallway and closed the door to my flat behind me, walking over and dropping my bag onto the kitchen table. I was halfway across the room towards the bathroom when I noticed the bookcase.

"What the- _That bloody cat!"_

As if hearing his summons, a streak of black dashed out of the bedroom and jumped lithely onto the kitchen worktop, gazing at me with a steely green glare, daring me to do something.

"_Inigo_!" I yelled, more than a little upset with the state of my apartment. "_You do not knock over bookcases!"_

Because the cat could understand me now, couldn't it? Christ! It wasn't even a little bookcase – it was a full blown floor-to-ceiling thing. And it was crammed with books. At least it used to be; now they were scattered across most of my carpet, their spines bent roughly out of shape. How the hell had the thing even managed to do this? It wasn't exactly an easy thing to move, let alone tip over completely. God I hoped the couple upstairs had been out when it fell. Otherwise they must have thought a bomb had gone off or something equally loud and destructive.

"You fu-"

My insult was cut off by Inigo's menacing hiss in my direction. So he knew he had done something bad. That only made it worse.

"No dinner for you!" I shouted firmly. Inigo growled in protest, but frankly I didn't care.

Clearing this mess up was going to take hours.

* * *

"Shut up." I grumbled weakly, pulling the duvet over my ears in a lethargic attempt to shut out the annoying noise. It helped marginally. What didn't, however, was the sudden weight appearing on my feet. "Alright, alright, I'm getting up!"

I swung my legs off the side of the bed and Inigo plopped down onto the floor. I yawned and pulled my body upwards, checking the clock briefly before slouching across the room. 6:54 – Inigo had actually let me sleep in.

"Ok, ok, I'll feed you." I told the stridently mewing animal running around my feet as I tried not to trip over him on my way to the kitchen. I dug into the cupboard and pulled out the sachets of cat food I had bought yesterday, emptying one into Oliver's old bowl. "I hope last night taught you not to make a mess. Remember – naughtiness only leads to hunger."

I placed the bowl onto the floor by the window and Inigo immediately tucked in. A grateful hum started rumbling from his throat. The greedy creature – only happy when he's fed.

Guessing he wasn't going to be generous enough to let me go back to sleep, I made myself a cup of tea, switched on the radio, opened up my laptop and sat down at the table. I was halfway through checking my inbox when I heard it.

I was only half-listening, really, but the familiar name on the seven o'clock news caught my attention. My fingers stopped typing away and lay frozen on the keyboard.

"_In Baker Street, London, a large explosion went off late last night. Authorities have yet to announce whether this was due to terrorist activities or if it is indeed being treated as suspicious. It is still unclear whether anybody was injured in the blast. In sporting news…"_

Did he say… explosion? In Baker Street? Where? Was that all the information they were going to give on it? But- But-

_It is still unclear whether anybody was injured in the blast._

Oh, don't be stupid Melanie. Baker Street was huge. And gas explosions couldn't be that big, could they? The likelihood of it being anywhere near 221b was tiny. And even if it was, I didn't even know if Sherlock was back from Belarus yet. But what about John?

More just to reassure myself than anything else, I hurriedly entered a new web address and waited for the BBC News page to load. The story was right near the bottom, the news of the upcoming election and recently found Vermeer taking far higher priority over a little gas leak. I clicked on the link.

My heart froze at the image.

230.

The building directly opposite Sherlock's flat.

How… how big was the blast?

"Inigo, I've got to go." I said as I ran into the bedroom and yanked myself into a pair of jeans and a clean top. Distractedly, I packed my bag and hoisted it over my shoulder. "Be good while I'm out, will you?"

I was halfway to the bus stop by the time I remembered I was talking to a cat.

* * *

I lept up the stairs in 221b. What damage I managed to notice in my quick pace outside looked bad. The windows were certainly busted. What injuries could that cause anyone inside? I didn't want to think about it. I just wanted to make sure everyone was fine.

"_Sherlock_? _Sherlock_?"

I flung open the door at the top of the stairs and looked around fervently, not sure what I was hoping to see. I think I found it though.

"Sherlock?" I asked much more quietly after approaching the sofa. I knelt down besides the figure stretched out across it, already fully dressed in one of his usual suits, his eyes closed and his body deathly still. "Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

I sighed in relief at his comfortingly detached response. "You're alright."

His eyes remained shut but I could feel the tension in his mind without looking at them. "Hardly." What? What was wrong? He didn't look hurt at all. "The peaceful slumber of London's top criminals is positively lethal."

My face dropped. He was bored. "So you really are alright, then."

"Did you not hear what I just said?"

"I meant with an explosion blowing up half your living room." I told him dryly.

"Hmm?" He opened his eyes as if he had forgotten about the whole thing, which no doubt he had. Only Sherlock Holmes could forget an explosion across the street that happened not twelve hours ago because it wasn't interesting enough. His face cleared when he saw the boarded up windows. "Oh, of course. Gas leak, apparently. If only it had been a planted device."

And only Sherlock Holmes could wish that that explosion was the fault of some dangerous master-criminal. A thoroughly calmed chuckle left my mouth as my forehead dropped and connected with Sherlock's upper arm in exhaustion. I had worried for _this_?

"How's Inigo?" I heard Sherlock ask while my eyes remained hazily on the material of the sofa in front of me.

"Horrendous." I replied honestly.

"Good."

I lifted my head back up and rolled my eyes, choosing to heave myself up into a standing position. I wandered across the room and began inspecting what damage I could. "How was Minsk?"

"Frightful."

"Good." I said back to him, a little smirk dancing across my lips. My fingers traced the edge of the nearby desk. Someone must have been in to clear up already. "When did you get back?"

"Yesterday."

I nodded, sounding far too used to this for my liking. "And the bullet holes in the wall?"

"Bored."

Ah. Well, that explained everything. I turned and meandered over to the kitchen, hoping that perhaps luck was shining on me and there might be something in the fridge that was somewhat edible. "So you've solved the missing cat case?"

"Of course." I heard from behind me as I pulled open the fridge door, wanting to inspect its contents.

It was a sign of how much I had matured in the past few weeks that I didn't throw up immediately.

I slammed the door shut violently. "Is that… Is that a _head_? In the _fridge_?"

"Tea would be appreciated."

I spun around. Sherlock was simply lounging there, completely relaxed. I could have screamed. "Sherlock, there's a frigging head in the frigging fridge!"

He didn't even open his eyes to acknowledge this was something unusual. "I know."

It was the shock that caused the brief pause before I shouted my next question. "_Why_?"

Sherlock sat up and gave me a condescending gaze. "I couldn't exactly put it anywhere else, could I?"

"But it's the fridge!" I yelled in disbelief. "Food goes in there – not dismembered body parts!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes slightly, as if my reaction was totally unreasonable. Which it most definitely was not. I thought I was keeping myself together rather well, actually. "And meat products?"

"Alright, not _human_ dismembered body parts!" I corrected myself angrily. How could he sit there so calmly? "And when was the last time your meat products including a whole decaying head?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply.

I cut in before he said anything that really would make me vomit. "Please don't answer that."

Sherlock impulsively stood and started towards me. He stopped when he was less than a foot away. "Maybe it would have been better if I had warned you of its presence."

"You think?" I shot back, feeling some of my traumatized anger leave me, and instead being replaced with my normal astonishment at Sherlock's habits.

He looked down at me, an odd expression crossing his grey eyes. It was unnerving. I waited patiently for him to say anything else on the matter.

"Sorry." He finally let out.

I blinked. Did he just apologise? Sherlock? Really? There really is a first for everything.

I shook my head slightly and sighed, letting my rage evaporate completely. "It's alright. Just remember to let me know in advance next time."

Sherlock smiled at that. There was something behind it that made me think it might be more than just glee at being able to find a new way to wiggle out of trouble. "I will."

"Good."

Sherlock's smile vanished and his eyes narrowed. "You were worried about me."

What? Why would a head in the fri- Oh.

I checked my appearance. Old jeans, mismatching top, slip-on flats instead of my usual heels – it must have been perfectly obvious to him that I had left my flat in a hurry.

I let out a breath of laughter. It was my turn to give the condescending stare. "Yes, Sherlock. As much as it might surprise you, I wouldn't be dancing on the ceiling were you to be blown up."

It took him a second to respond to that. And when he did it was a simple, "Oh."

This was Sherlock. So utterly and completely confident when it came to nearly everything – intellect, physical strength, social skills – he was more than a slight egotist. And yet he was so insecure when it came to anyone actually caring about him. A child. Needing reassurance.

A small considerate smile grew on my face. I leant upwards, connecting our lips in a quick peck of what I hoped was comfort, before returning to my prior stance. Sherlock frowned.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

I jumped at the voice, my eyes swivelling away from Sherlock's face and onto the intruder standing beside the door. Mycroft Holmes swung his umbrella lazily from his hand, that trusty smile plastered across his mouth, going nowhere near his eyes. The hair on my arms stood on end.

"Go away." Sherlock said bluntly as he decisively stepped away from me, pacing across the room. He grabbed his violin from the desk and slumped down into the armchair. I had grown to recognise that violin as a sign of his growing annoyance. This would not be pretty.

"Oh, come now, Sherlock, aren't you pleased to see your brother?" Mycroft asked lightly.

"No." was Sherlock's blunt reply.

Mycroft's lips pursed together, a brief flash of something akin to disappointment crossing his features. "No, I expected you wouldn't be."

Sherlock held the violin and began plucking away at the strings. "Go away."

Mycroft acted like he hadn't heard anything, turning to face me. "Good morning, Melanie. I hope you are well?"

"Uh-"

"You know exactly how she is." Sherlock interjected rudely.

"Yes, well, it is polite to ask these things." The elder brother stated. "That new cat of yours isn't proving too much trouble, I hope?"

"How did-" I started, before giving up completely. I would just have to suck it up and come to terms with the fact that Mycroft probably knew more about me than I did. He had probably bugged my apartment by now, hadn't he? God damn it. Why couldn't I have found a man with a perfectly ordinary family that he never saw? "I should go."

"Yes, that's probably for the best." Mycroft agreed kindly. "I have business to discuss with Sherlock."

"No you don't." Sherlock contradicted. "Melanie, stay. Mycroft, go."

I rolled my eyes at the now infamous sibling rivalry, trotting over to where Sherlock was sitting. For some reason beyond my understanding, I leant down and kissed his forehead. "I'll see you later."

"At least take him with you." He muttered darkly, not even looking Mycroft in the eyes.

Mycroft laughed. "I'd like to see her try."

Oh, God, these brothers were impossible weren't they? Simply impossible.

I collected my bag from where I had dropped it earlier and swung it onto my shoulder, subconsciously trying to stay as far away from Mycroft as possible as I edged passed him and out of the door.

I was at the bottom of the stairs when I heard the voices start again.

"Well, Sherlock, I never expected you to be one for romance."

* * *

_Not quite so long a wait this time, so be grateful for that. The next one's going to pick up on the drama level again, hopefully, so be warned._

_I was watching the first episode of Black Books again the other day, and I noticed an extremely young looking Martin Freeman that I had never spotted before or just forgotten about. Aw, it must have been one of his first comedy roles or something. How time flies._

_Reviews are always appreciated!_


	33. Instigate

**Thirty** **Three**  
_**Instigate**_

I hadn't seen Sherlock since then. My day off had been taken up with a visit to my parents with Lucas and Becky – now that they were formally 'together' and all – and the past couple of days I had spent trying to teach a particularly hopeless new intern that clumsiness was not a good thing when around priceless antiquities. Either that or trying to stop Inigo from trashing my flat. He was getting somewhat easier to live with, surprisingly. At least he didn't scratch me if I got too close or wake me up at absurd hours anymore. Maybe he was starting to like me, or maybe he just didn't like going hungry. Whichever it was, I was grateful for the change.

I had been pretty busy, but it was still odd that Sherlock hadn't popped up somewhere and tried to distract me with some bright and shiny plan like a magpie. He was hopelessly bored the last time we saw each other, and when he was bored he had a habit of disrupting my life. I guessed that whatever business Mycroft had had to discuss with him had him sufficiently entertained. Would Sherlock really take a case from his brother though? It did seem a little out of character.

I decided to find out for myself. And so I took a rather leisurely lunch on Friday and trouped my way over to Baker Street to see what was happening.

The flat looked empty when I got there, apart from a fretful Mrs. Hudson who I had to tell four times that I didn't need tea and biscuits, but there was an interesting addition to the usual décor of the flat.

The wall above the sofa was plastered with various papers, maps and photographs. The ones I dared look at didn't appear that connected. An empty car, that TV personality who had died recently, a pair of shoes – nothing that gave me any hint of what was going on. One thing was clear though; Sherlock had a new case. And by the looks of things, it was a complicated one. So that was why he hadn't checked in.

I heard the voices from below before the footsteps bounding up the stairs.

"It isn't that simple." Sherlock told a flustered looking Lestrade as they strolled into the room. He must have spotted me but didn't show any sign of it, simply walking over and standing in front of the aforementioned wall. He took a new photo out of his pocket and stuck it amidst the clutter of images.

"Oh, hi." Lestrade greeted me, slightly taken aback with finding someone else in the flat.

"Hey." I answered back. I turned to Sherlock, waving a hand at the pictures curiously. "What's this all about then?"

Sherlock continued to stare at the evidence before him. "I'm rather busy, do you mind?"

I frowned. I thought his etiquette had improved somewhat over the past few weeks. "Anything I can help you with?"

"Not unless you can recite a list of the Czech Republic's most wanted criminals off the top of your head."

"Uh, no."

"Hang on, the Czech Republic?" Lestrade cut in confused.

"Yes, Lestrade, the Czech Republic." He shot back, clearly in his 'I'm analysing don't disturb me' mood. I rolled my eyes. Someone was grumpy today. "I'm busy, Melanie. You should go."

That stopped my thoughts. Sherlock hadn't been so short with me in a while now. I thought we were progressing. "What?"

"Go." He said with a little more force than strictly necessary.

My breath caught in my throat. I realised what he was saying.

He didn't want me here.

Even when he had been so deeply involved in a case that he forgot to drink he hadn't turned me away. He liked talking at people when deducing. He liked showing off. Why now then? My voice came out weaker than I hoped when I next spoke. "I could help."

"No, you couldn't." he replied, still refusing to meet my gaze, instead focusing his attention on drawing a line between two points on the map.

"But-"

"Melanie." He interrupted my protests sternly and finally turned to me. He looked me squarely in the eyes, his expression more serious than I could recall him ever having before. And that was saying something for Sherlock. "You will not get involved with this."

There was something in his voice, something I couldn't recognise, that made me see just how important this was to him. I swallowed and grudgingly nodded my compliance. "Ok."

Quick as a flash he was inspecting the wall again. "Good."

"I'll just…" I muttered, "I'll just go then."

I picked up my bag and headed past Lestrade and out the door.

"Err, well, bye, then, I guess." Lestrade stumbled out, obviously seriously puzzled by what had just happened. I smiled at him in response and hurried on down the steps and out of the flat, only stopping on the way back to the museum to gather my things back into my bag after a rushing man knocked it out of my hands by mistake.

Something was up with Sherlock. Something was up with this case.

* * *

I didn't dare contact him after that. I knew that when this was all over, when he had dealt with this case, he would get in touch somehow. I knew he would. He had to. The sooner, the better.

I had managed to convince my boss to let me work at home on Monday afternoon, after much pointing out just how much work I had done in the last week multiple times. I had more than made up for my previous slack behaviour. And the lights in the Museum were giving me a headache all through Monday morning. I didn't usually suffer under fluorescents like some people did, but today was not a good day. I must have been coming down with something. I hoped it wasn't the flu or anything too serious.

I sat at the desk in my living room, looking over a cheap translated copy of the Guru Granth Sahib and marking down anything that could help me with the museum's new piece. Sikhism was not my speciality, mainly because it was born extremely recently compared to other South Asian religions. I usually only dealt with older artefacts, but a manuscript had turned up unexpectedly and they needed someone to look over it. Apparently I was the best they could get.

I highlighted a sentence that I thought I recognised vaguely from the manuscript but found myself jumping and the bright yellow ink jerking across the page at a very sudden and very loud noise coming from the bedroom.

I turned around in time to spot Inigo running out. He dashed across the room and jumped up onto the top of the fridge, edging his way right to the back.

"Inigo! What have you done now?" I cried frustrated. He had been so much better the last couple of days. He hadn't knocked the bedside table over or anything. What had made him revert back to his old ways now?

The cat sat there, its haunches raised defensively, hissing profusely. I got to my feet.

"Hiding back there won't do you any good, you know?" I told him austerely. "If you've done something naughty then I'll know about it."

Inigo mewed fervently. I sighed. Damn Sherlock and his bloody cat. If he had broken anything important then-

I stopped ten feet away from the bedroom door, noticing something odd.

Some cats had a tendency to hide abashedly after doing anything they knew was bad, but Inigo wasn't one of them. He usually sat plain in sight, daring me to do anything to him in retaliation. And yet here he was, crouching defensively in the highest corner in the flat, making noises as if he was terrified.

And there was something else too. His violent spits and warning growls weren't directed at me.

He was staring fixated in a completely different direction.

My bedroom.

I should have walked straight out of the apartment. That's what you always scream at the protagonist in those cheesy horror films. Don't go look! Just run away, you idiot! But something stopped me – something I felt deep in my stomach. I didn't want to be some scaredycat who panicked over every tiny noise, someone who called the police thinking she was being stalked when it turned out just to be her next-door neighbour going home. Those people were ridiculous. And I couldn't have just left anyway, my curiosity would never allow it. I couldn't leave without knowing whether it actually was something to worry about or whether, and this is the far more likely option, it was just my imagination.

I needed to know.

It wasn't the brightest of ideas, I knew that, but doing anything else would have been just stupid without any idea of what exactly was happening. So as I tiptoed lightly across the carpet, edging my way along the edge of the sofa, hoping to be able to peek around the corner and into the room discreetly, I shoved all my fear and no doubt misplaced anxiety to one side.

I just wanted to see. It was probably nothing anyway. Just Inigo being the annoying little brat he usually was. He must have ran into something or bro-

… Oh.

* * *

Dr. John Watson sat comfortably on the sofa, newspaper folded and raised in front of him, trying to concentrate on the article in hand.

He already knew all the details, of course, he wasn't likely to forget how Sherlock had instantly shot down his explanation of the events and instead formed a highly better one… yet again, but it was always interesting to see what the press had actually been informed, and even more interesting to see how they reported it. Naturally, Sherlock would have hated it, just as he hated his blog – too much focus on the tale when it should be a simple presentation of the facts. If Sherlock had his way, it would probably just be a long quote of his describing how he deduced the outcome from someone's haircut or something equally ridiculously brilliant.

The task of actually reading the paper would have been significantly easier however, had it not been for one small factor.

"Don't be ludicrous! Her nails clearly show she's not lying!"

John sighed and peered over the top of the paper. "Sherlock, if you're going to get so annoyed then just don't watch the thing."

Sherlock twisted around in his armchair, prying his eyes away from the precious television, and glared at his flatmate. "It is important, John, that I keep my brain cells active when acceptable distractions are otherwise unavailable."

"By watching Trisha?" John asked sceptically.

Sherlock slumped around, returning his attention back to the screen. "Yes, well, I don't expect you'd understand."

"Right." John skipped over the insult, now far too used to them to really care. "But you could be doing something about the bomber? There's only been four pips, remember."

"Pointless until he makes his next move. Oh, for heaven's sake! Look at the eyelashes! The eyelashes!"

John grumbled and turned back to the paper.

A mobile rang. John looked up in time to see Sherlock answer it, his eyes still fixed firmly on the TV in the corner.

"Busy, Melanie." He said distractedly before promptly hanging up and placing the phone back on the armrest.

John frowned. "Uh, Sherlock?"

Sherlock was too busy waving angrily at the screen to answer him. "Oh my God, these people are morons! Can't they observe at-"

"Sherlock?"

"-all? No, of course not, they're too busy-"

"Sherlock?" John piped up again, this time louder, his previous confusion growing into something else.

"-sleeping with each other and doing their make-up. If I had a show like this then-"

"_Sherlock!_"

The mobile rang again.

Sherlock went silent.

His face turned slack as he finally noticed why John had been trying to get his attention so ardently.

Ever so slowly, he lifted the pink phone up, held it in front of him and pressed the speaker phone button.

"Melanie?"

* * *

_Cliffhanger so there! _

_Yeah, I've switched back to third person John POV, hope that didn't confuse any of you. I doubt it as I thought I made it pretty obvious what was happening. But then again, I already knew what I was doing._

_Sooo… review?_


	34. Interest

**Thirty** **Four  
**_**Interest**_

John watched the back of Sherlock's head as he waited for a response. With anyone else he would have expected Sherlock's face to be contorted in a mixture of panic, fear and anger. As a doctor he had seen people's expressions at bad news far too often. Everyone dealt differently, but the fundamental emotions were always the same. The stages of grief were cliché, but they were always there in some form. With Sherlock, however, he had no clue as to what his face would have looked like in those painful moments of silence. Shock? Worry? Hopeful that this was all a misunderstanding? Because it couldn't be what he was thinking, could it?

Melanie couldn't have called the pink phone just as the others did.

"_Hey_, _sweetie_."

John could have sighed with relief. It was Melanie, alright, but she didn't sound terrified or frantic. She sounded her normal self. She'd probably just gotten the numbers mixed up. Although it was a bit odd Sherlock had given her the pink phone's number in the first place.

Something was still wrong, though. Sherlock hadn't moved or relaxed at the calm greeting. His muscles were still tense. He didn't speak for at least thirty seconds.

"Melanie."

It surprised John to hear his friend's voice come out so soft, so obviously _worried_. What was going on? Had he spotted something John had missed?

"_Nice to speak to you again, honey_."

Ok, that wasn't a very Melanie thing to say.

In a flash Sherlock was on his feet, bounding towards the sofa John was sitting on. He didn't cast him a glance though and instead stopped and stared at the wall of evidence Sherlock had created. John stood too, staring concerned at his flatmate. But there was nothing to be seen on his face – just the same cold determination he got with any new mystery.

"Listen, Melanie," he started, his voice now returned to its usual solidity, any trace of worry vanished, "do exactly as he tells you to. Do not try to be clever or tell me anything he doesn't specify. Follow his words to the letter. Do you understand?"

No.

But did that mean…

"_She understands far better than you might think."_

Oh, crap.

"How long do I have?" Sherlock shot back immediately.

"_Don't you want to talk, Sherlock? But she's being such a… brave little girl…" _And John heard it, the faintest crackling within Melanie's voice. She was trying not to fall apart. "_Brave little… t- tart."_

"How long do I have?" he repeated, obviously refusing to bite.

"_This one… should be interesting._" Melanie was starting to fail, John could hear her sharp breathing even over the electronic buzz of the phone. Talking to Sherlock must not be helping her. He needed to wrap this up quickly. "_How long d- do you think… I should g- give you?"_

Sherlock took a second to reply. "Twelve hours."

"_You have… s- six._" Melanie sounded like she was starting to cry now. John was amazed she'd managed to hold out so long. "_L- Looks like s- she's not so… brave… after all_."

Sherlock hung up.

Almost instantaneously the mobile received a message. Stoically, Sherlock opened it up, his eyes darting over it for all of ten seconds, before throwing the phone into John's unaware hands. He fumbled with it momentarily, but finally managed to get a firm grasp on the thing and check for himself what picture – and presumably clue – they had been sent this time.

"A parrot?" he asked confused. "Sherlock, this is a parr- Sherlock!"

In the time it had taken him to glance at the image, his flatmate had already grabbed his coat and scarf and was halfway down the stairs and out of the flat. John, as always, ran after.

* * *

He only just managed to stop and climb into the cab before Sherlock darted off without him. John didn't even bother to do up his seatbelt, instead grabbing hold of Sherlock's forearm and at last forcing him to actually look him in the eyes. It was funny. He didn't seem any different.

"Sherlock," John started, the anxiety plainly etched onto his features, "Is she-"

Sherlock pulled his arm out of John's grasp. "Another hostage? It appears so."

"Oh, God." John muttered. His eyes drifted shut and he leant back into the car seat. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. Only this wasn't just another hostage as Sherlock had described it, was it? It was Melanie. Sherlock's Melanie. Surely he couldn't just act like this meant nothing? "Wh… Wha-"

"I've been expecting something like this to happen for a while now."

That got John's attention. His eyes shot open, focusing on the man beside him. How the hell could he browse through his phone so calmly when saying a piece of information like that?

"_What_?"

"Think back John. He's been leaving clues for us to follow for quite some time." Sherlock informed John so peacefully, as if he was commenting on the weather or something. No one would have thought they were talking about someone kidnapping and strapping a bomb to his girlfriend.

Of all the things John had seen Sherlock do, this was the worst. Did he not even _care_?

"You've been anticipating this and you've done _nothing_?" John spat out angrily. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. Did Sherlock want Melanie to be taken hostage? Was this all a game to him? Was Melanie's very life just a pawn to be played with?

"What could I have done, John?" he asked, his tone not changing in the slightest.

"Looked after her? Caught this madman? _Told her_?" he offered as just a few suggestions. Surely anything Sherlock could have done would have been better than this?

Sherlock finally looked up from his precious mobile. His gaze was flat as he peered at John, but John managed to spot just a glimpse of something deeper in his words. "For what end? Just to make her panic and live in terror until Moriarty caught up with her? No John, I would not have told her, and if you would have then perhaps you are not as warm-hearted as you like others to believe."

John found himself floundering.

Was Sherlock right? Was there really nothing that could have been done?

His temper was slowly reeling itself back in. This was a mess. He didn't need to make it any worse than it was already. He gave up on arguing with Sherlock and turned his attention to the many questions going around his brain. "How did you know this would happen?"

"The phone, John, the phone!"

John blinked. Sherlock was not the most helpful person on the planet. "Which phone? The pink ph-"

"Oh, don't be such an idiot, John! The pink phone was just to get my attention."

"Then what-"

"_Melanie's_ phone!" Sherlock said as if it explained everything. It didn't. John sat there, looking confused. Sherlock let out a huge sigh. "Oh, for heaven's sake. It went missing two weeks ago. Melanie assumes she just lost it, perhaps in our flat somewhere. But it wasn't just misplaced, it completely vanished – no one moved it or has seen it since. So not lost then – taken. The number which rang the pink phone today confirmed that."

John scrambled his brain around to get it in order. "Her phone was stolen and you automatically assume someone's going to kidnap her?"

Sherlock turned to the window and watched the streaming blur of buildings as they soared past them. "There were other clues."

"Such as?"

"Her flat's been broken into. I deduced as much, but Mycroft confirmed it for me on his last visit." He said to the glass.

"What?" John asked shocked. Melanie hadn't mentioned any break-ins, at least any not committed by Sherlock, and wouldn't she have brought up something like that? "What did they take?"

"Nothing." Sherlock answered, almost sounding bored with the conversation now. John felt a slither of his previous anger rise up again. "They simply knocked over some objects, ripped her sheets and made large gashes in her sofa. An attempt to frighten her, no doubt."

"Why would they want to-" John's frown cleared as it hit him. "They were trying to get your attention."

Sherlock didn't move. "And make me do something pathetically drastic, of course."

And that was what it was all about, wasn't it? Poking Sherlock with a stick through the bars of his cage. Melanie had just got caught in the firing line.

"But Melanie hasn't been acting like she was scared of anything." John pointed out.

"No, Melanie foolishly believes that all those events were caused by her new cat."

John's frown returned. "What new cat?"

"The new cat," Sherlock replied evenly, "that I gave her."

Oh.

Maybe Sherlock wasn't so heartless after all.

Suddenly, Sherlock leant forwards and tapped the plastic partition between them and the driver. "Here will be fine."

The taxi slowed and swerved up to the pavement, grumbling to a slow halt. Sherlock opened the door to leave. John looked around curiously. "Where are we?"

Sherlock slipped out of the car and started walking away, calling an answer back over his shoulder as John climbed out and dug around in his pocket for something to pay the driver with.

"_London Zoo!"_

* * *

_Short, I know. And kind of dull. My mind has imploded. Sorry._

_Reviews bring a rare smile to my miserable face!_


	35. Intellect

**Chapter** **Thirty** **Five**  
_**Intellect**_

_05:47:03_

John caught up to Sherlock as he was putting away what suspiciously looked like Lestrade's police ID, a young man at the Zoo entrance hurriedly pushing open the metal gate and letting him through. John just managed to slip in, not helped by Sherlock at all in explaining briefly that he was with the detective, before the gate was shut.

"Where is everyone?" he asked, hurrying after the coated figure, "They can't close this early, can they?"

Sherlock didn't need to reply though, for the answer was made perfectly clear as they rounded a corner in the path and were met with a startling sight.

"Sherlock!" a man standing several meters away from them exclaimed after looking up from the object in his hands. John followed Sherlock up to the man's side. "How did you find out about this? It hasn't been reported to any press teams yet."

"Bomber." Sherlock answered bluntly, picking the evidence bag right out of Lestrade's hand and holding it up to the light.

Lestrade looked shocked for all of a second. "Our mystery bomber's behind this as well? I thought I was just pulled in for publicity reasons."

"Hang on," John said, trying to ignore a Sherlock who was crouching around the pebbled path looking for some secret clue, "What exactly is this?"

Several officers buzzed around them, one just finishing enclosing the vicinity with blue and white police tape, another dusting the side of a glass tank to their right for prints. Lestrade was watching Sherlock carefully. "You mean you don't know?"

"No." John replied honestly.

Lestrade nodded to the cage to their left. "Stolen parrot apparently."

John frowned. "Why would anyone want to steal a parrot? And why would that need a Detective Inspector to investigate?"

"Spix's macaw, John."

John looked away from Lestrade. Sherlock was by now standing next to the aforementioned cage, examining each piece of wire carefully. John thought Sherlock might be swearing at him in some foreign language he didn't understand. "Er, what?"

"Spix's macaw – the bird that was stolen." Sherlock said as if it explained everything.

John was tempted to ask him whether he had the entire Encyclopaedia of Ornithology memorised or whether he had just read the label, but realised there were more important questions to be asked. "And?"

"Honestly, John, don't you read?"

John narrowed his eyes. "Not about specific varieties of parrot, no."

Sherlock shot a glare back at his flatmate before squatting down and running his gloved fingers across the walled base of the coop. "The Spix's macaw, almost certainly extinct in the wild, with only eighty six known to be captivity, is often considered the rarest bird on the planet. The specimen that was stolen was the first to be brought to the UK for a new breeding programme taking place at The National Parrot Sanctuary in Lincolnshire. The second bird is scheduled to be transported here next month."

"So… it's valuable." John summed up nicely.

Sherlock stood up straight again. "Extremely."

Without even asking, he pulled open the gate and stepped into the cage, dashing about the small confines in the most typical Sherlock-is-on-a-hunt way John could imagine.

"How long have you got?" Lestrade asked, his arms crossed as he peered at Sherlock's actions curiously.

Sherlock checked his watch briefly. "Five hours, thirty six minutes and twelve seconds, approximately."

Lestrade rubbed a hand over his face. "Oh, Christ. Which poor sucker did he pull out of their home this time?"

A very, very small part of John expected Sherlock to show a hint of some form of emotion at that question. He therefore felt like hitting the man when all he got was a brusque, "Not important."

John felt his hands twitch, as if getting ready to ball themselves up into fists if the time required it. "_Not_ _im_- Sherlock, how can you say that?"

"She's just another hostage, John."

John spluttered for a second. He may have agreed that fighting with Sherlock wasn't going to do anyone any good, but this was a bit much. "Just another hostage?"

Lestrade was frowning, not understanding the conversation. "Who is?"

John threw a hand into the air in frustration. "Melanie!"

"Melanie? As in his…" Lestrade left the question hanging in the air, realisation striking him. "Oh, Jesus! And you think that's not _important_?"

Sherlock shut the door to the enclosure behind him, trotting on past the pair and ducking under the police tape as he started off in a new direction.

Lestrade looked exhausted. "Sherlock! Where are you going now?"

"The staffroom!"

* * *

_05:29:36_

"And we're here because?"

John watched as Sherlock leant over the cheap plastic coffee table and examined and extremely ordinary looking empty mug. "This was an inside job."

John frowned. Lestrade just shook his head in a cross between amazement and doubt. "How did you work that one out?"

Sherlock looked at them as if they were idiots. "Seriously?" At their blank expressions he sighed and turned to inspect one of the rickety chairs. "There's only one entrance into that cage, correct? Now apart from the obvious fact that the lock showed no signs of being forced, the door is constantly in the shot of at least one of the three security cameras in the area. I doubt even you Lestrade would have failed to consider that, meaning the tapes didn't show anything. The only way they could have done that is if they were altered. We passed the security headquarters where the tapes are kept on the way inside and, again, the lock hadn't been forced. So naturally the only logical conclusion is that the thief either had the key to begin with or was able to retrieve it from someone they knew."

"Right," Lestrade said when he had managed to think about Sherlock's reasoning, "so what? We round up all the staff for questioning?"

Sherlock picked a lone strand of hair off of the floor and popped it into a small evidence bag. "If you're going to continue to make such stupid suggestions Lestrade, then I'd rather you just shut up – in fact, just shut up anyway."

John rolled his eyes. "Do you want us to do anything at all other than stand here watching you?"

Sherlock was silent for a second before answering. "Get me a list of all people employed at the zoo over the past eight months."

* * *

_04:52:27_

John walked into their kitchen to find Sherlock hunched over a microscope. He dropped the papers he was carrying onto the table in front of the detective. "The list of employees."

Sherlock peered up from the microscope eyepiece and glanced at the sheets.

"Good." He muttered before getting back to his experiment.

"What are you doing?" John asked. In response Sherlock merely held out a small evidence bag for him to take. John did and squinted at the contents. "Hair?"

"Yes," was all the elaboration he received. John looked at the bag again. He could see two strands of short, curly white hair, but nothing else that would tell him anything. Apparently Sherlock finally felt like sharing. "One of those was taken from inside the staffroom, the other from inside the enclosure. When was the last time you saw a macaw with hair, John?"

"It could have belonged to one of the bird's carers."

Sherlock didn't move away from the microscope. "Possibly."

John looked at his friend and flatmate. He had been there to observe his actions throughout so many cases now that he had become accustomed to the man's eccentricities. He became so focused he forgot everything else. The determination and speed at which he rushed around making deductions was always startling. And there was always something else there, burning away in the detective's eyes and casting light across the case's shadows – a sense of fun. It was normal for Sherlock to spend hours at his microscope or pinpoint seemingly useless pieces of information and put together farfetched conclusions, just as he had been doing over the past hour. But something was different here, something Sherlock would undoubtedly hate to admit to anyone; the fun was missing.

"How are you finding this_ caring lark_?"

Sherlock was still despite John's soft question, but he thought he spotted the tiniest of flinches in the man's arm. "I told you before, John. Caring won't help me save her."

John shook his head. He wasn't going to have the same argument with Sherlock again, no matter how painfully obvious it was that this time he and not the genius was right.

"Yes!" Sherlock suddenly exclaimed, pouncing to his feet and grabbing his coat.

"What?" John asked as he hurried on behind Sherlock out of the door and down the stairs of their flat. "Where are we going now?"

"To visit Mr. White."

* * *

_04:21:46_

They walked up the neat driveway of the pretty terraced house in an otherwise somewhat rundown neighbourhood. John wondered what the two pieces of white hair could have told the detective that caused for this visit. Sure, it was clear that in any normal investigation this trip would have been customary. Who wouldn't go see the head of security at anywhere where anything had been stolen? But Sherlock didn't do customary. And he certainly didn't like talking to people unless absolutely necessary.

The stopped in front of the clean white front door and Sherlock pressed the doorbell located next to the half-moon frosted window.

"So what, we just tell the man outright that we're investigating the missing bird?"

"Let's see," Sherlock said to himself, scanning the front of the building as he did so, "House proud, family man, younger wife, too busy with work to spend much time at home. So," The door before them swung open. A large, bald man stood on the other side, a tired look on his face and bags under his eyes. Sherlock's persona immediately altered, a large grin sweeping across his mouth. "Mr. White, I'm Sherlock Holmes and this is John Watson. We're from your daughter's school. May we come in?"

* * *

_Sorry, sorry, sorry, long wait, yes. _

_To be honest I think I'm just subconsciously putting off finishing this fic, but also I got back into one of my older fics that was previously on hiatus. Which, by the way, you should all read. It's about Katie Macalister's vampire book series, but honestly you don't even need to have heard of that. Actually it probably reads better if you haven't. And it has a sexy mofo'n Russian vampire called Dmitri. Gah. _

_Anyways, enough of my blatant and scandalous plugging._

_Review pleasie?_


	36. Incapable

**Thirty** **Six**  
_**Incapable**_

_04:17:52_

"You want some tea or something?"

John was about to tell the balding man how much that would be appreciated, only Sherlock got there first.

"No thanks, we won't be long."

They stepped from the light yet narrow hallway through the empty doorframe and into a surprisingly large space – or perhaps it was just an illusion of space created by open plan living and sparse white walls. John struggled to remember the last time he had seen anywhere so tidy, He certainly wasn't going to in Baker Street, where Sherlock cluttered up every available surface, including those found in John's own bedroom. Sherlock had been right again; someone was most definitely house-proud.

The short and chubby head of security indicated that they should sit on the large beige sofa while he awkwardly sat in the matching armchair. He sighed. "So, what's she done this time?"

"This time?"

The end of John's question was cut off by Sherlock's false laugh. "Oh, no, it's nothing like that. The school's simply making some home visits in order to establish a greater relationship between the teachers and parents – new policy, that's all."

Mr White visibly relaxed. "Well I suppose that's something."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Yes?"

The man dismissed the question with a wave. "Sorry, bad day, you know."

"How so?" Sherlock asked as if it was no more of a question than to inquire the time or weather. John started peering around the room, inspecting for any clues, as he listened to the background conversation.

"Just work stuff."

"What do you do?"

They had an expensive television, that was for sure, and it didn't look like Mrs White had scrimped when it came to furnishings either. Maybe they were in debt and he stole the parrot to make up for it?

"Security manager."

"Really? I have a cousin in that field. Whereabouts do you work?"

"Zoo, but after today I'm not so sure anymore."

There were lots of photos placed neatly upon the fireplace, all of which appeared to be of a pretty blonde woman and her smiling children, some featuring a tall light-haired man. Mr White didn't appear in any of them.

"Oh, it can't have been that bad."

"It was, trust me. Look, I better shut up now – we're not meant to say anything."

"Then say no more. I understand."

John frowned. "Do you have a dog, Mr White?"

Mr White turned to him, as if only just remembering he was still there. Sherlock didn't move an inch. John realised it must seem like an odd question, but he had just noticed the fluffy dog bed and assortment of toys in the corner of the room.

"'Fraid so." Mr White answered with an expression on his face that had John thinking he might not be a fan of the animal. "You're not allergic, are you? Only the blasted hairs get everywhere."

He brushed down the material of his trousers, John noticed the fine hairs come loose and fall softly to the floor. The short, white strands blended almost perfectly with the cream carpet.

Sherlock was on his feet in an instant. "Let's go."

John blinked, watching in astonishment as the detective far too calmly strolled out of the room presumably towards the front door. This was confirmed with the sound of a door opening and closing that soon rang throughout the house. John tried to make sense out of it, but in the end gave up and blindly followed.

"Sorry," he said quickly to a confused Mr White before he left, "he's just really scared of dogs."

* * *

_02:49:37_

John sighed for the umpteenth time and slammed his head against the back of the armchair. He felt like shouting. This was not how it was supposed to go. Sherlock was meant to be running around, chasing the bad guys, leaping off of balconies and fighting swords with his bare hands – winning.

Now, however, he didn't appear to be doing anything at all. He was just lying there, outstretched, eyes firmly shut, his feet sticking off the end of the sofa in their little home. He had been for over an hour.

"Sherlock?" John asked again in hope, but just like all the other times he had tried to get something out of the crazy fiend he called a flatmate, Sherlock said nothing. Even in his deepest moments of contemplation Sherlock had always spoken to him, or spoken at him; John had the deepest feeling that he was just showing off. He had never been so silent in a case before. It was unnerving. "_Sherlock_?"

Still no response. John was getting rather fed up with this.

He stood, wanting to actually do something useful, and started towards the door. He didn't know what he was going to do, but it was better than sitting there.

"Where are you going?"

John snapped at the unexpected words and swept around. So, now, finally, after all his badgering, Sherlock had decided to grant him the pleasure of his voice.

"Anywhere." He answered forcefully.

Sherlock didn't even open an eyelid. "Shut up. I'm trying to think."

John balked. "I was answering your question!"

"Then do so in silence."

John brought a hand to his forehead in annoyance. "Sherlock, can you please let me know what you're thinking? It was dog hair you found in the parrot cage, wasn't it?"

Ever so slowly, Sherlock lifted his hands until they formed a prayer position under his chin. He let out what might have been a long sigh. "Yes."

"Mr White's dog?" John continued. "What are we still doing here then? He obviously took the bird."

"Oh, please John. I knew Mr White's dog was the owner of those hairs before we left this apartment to visit him."

That stopped John. The first thing that came to his mind was the question of how in the entire world Sherlock had worked out something like that. The second question was why they had then visited the man if Sherlock already knew the answers. The third question, however, was the one he chose to voice. "But he didn't take the parrot?"

Sherlock lazily tapped his hands against his chin a couple of times. "No."

John sat again, his curiosity getting the best of him as he inspected his friend. "Why not?"

Sherlock at long last decided to open his eyes and look at him. He had that expression he always got when he thought others were being even more idiotic than usual. "Mr White not only works at London Zoo, but also moonlights in a popular fast food chain, as shown by the grease stains on his clothes, burn scars on his hands, and oily skin. He works exceptionally hard in order to maintain his appearance-conscious wife, which he is constantly afraid of losing. He's also honest. He would never risk his family by committing such a crime. He didn't even realise the macaw was so valuable until today."

"But the hair-"

"Yes. It is interesting that it was found inside the cage," Sherlock stated quickly, "Especially seeing as he has not been inside any enclosure since his appointment."

John shrugged. "Maybe someone just sat on it in the staffroom or something."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Unlikely."

John didn't think it was that unlikely. He had seen hundreds of more unlikely things since he had met the detective. But Sherlock was usually right in these circumstances, so if he thought the hair had a more sinister connection, then that connection no doubt existed. John tried to look for any other explanation. "What about Mr White's daughter? He acted like she was always in trouble for one thing or another. From what you said and the photos in their house it looks like he doesn't see her often – maybe she's crying for his attention?"

"Honestly." Sherlock said while he rolled his eyes in annoyance. In one fluid movement, he swung around and sat on the edge of the couch, leaning forwards intensely. "This was not only carried out in the middle of the day, with plenty of possible witnesses, but the tapes were altered, John. I doubt video doctoring is something a fifteen year old girl with currently five separate boyfriends specialises in. No, John, this was professional."

John frowned. "Then who?"

* * *

_01:38:24_

Another hour had passed, and still Sherlock had yet to do anything. John wished that he would at least question someone about where they had been at the time of burglary, but so far his wish had not been granted. Sherlock, it appeared, was trapped.

Moriarty was winning.

"Alan Phelps?" John suggested tiredly, reading off the next name on the long list of Zoo employees.

"No." Sherlock shot back, the response being identical to every other he had received. The genius was just sitting there, staring blankly off at the wall, his expression portraying none of the frustration John knew he must be feeling.

"Georgina Rathborne?"

"No."

"Edward Richardson?"

"No."

"Hu-"

"_For God's sake,_ _no!_"

John was taken aback by the sudden outburst. Sherlock's cold, statuesque exterior had been shattered. In its place was a wild energy that seemed to threaten the very air around them. He had not merely shouted at John, letting his emotions slip, but had acted on said emotions – in a dramatic and violent way.

The tall floor lamp collapsed under the impact as it connected with the wall, creating a loud smash as the glass of the bulb exploded, sparks flying dangerously across the room as the stand and adjoining wires snapped. John was lucky his instincts for survival had taken over as soon as Sherlock had moved; otherwise he was certain the light would have hit him directly in the face. He had dived and now knelt on the floor beside his chair, staring astonished at the wreckage.

"Sherlock, you could have killed me!"

"_I just_," Sherlock started roaring, head clutched in his hands, "_can't_ _think!"_

John collected himself and sighed. Careful not to make Sherlock any angrier, he edged around and swiftly unplugged the lamp so that perhaps they wouldn't all be electrocuted today. He stood and gazed concerned at his flatmate who, just as dramatically as when he had stood, slumped and collapsed back onto the sofa. It appeared as if all the strength had been sucked out of him.

His next words carried an almost pitiful tone to them. "Why can't I think, John?"

John knew the answer to that. Sherlock Holmes was probably the only person in the world who wouldn't immediately see it. He spoke softly, wanting to comfort the man. "You're worried."

Sherlock only frowned. "About what?"

John would have laughed had it not been such a desperate situation. "What do you think? A madman's kidnapped and strapped a bomb to your girlfriend and if you don't figure out his clues he's going to blow her up. Being worried is actually an underreaction."

Sherlock scoffed. "Worrying is pointless."

"Still happens, though."

Sherlock was silent. He clearly didn't know what to do or say to make things better for himself. John watched his turmoil, some small part of him glad to see his friend demonstrating some form of attachment to Melanie other than as a boredom preventer. The larger, more logical, part of his brain, though, saw that this was not good. Sherlock needed full use of his mind. He finally saw what Sherlock had been trying to tell him all this time – caring only got in the way.

"Do you want some tea?" It was the only thing John could think of. It was useless and conforming to a stupid British stereotype, but there was nothing he could say to make things any easier for the man in front of him.

All muscles in Sherlock's lean form simultaneously tensed.

His expression had vanished, leaving only something akin to resolution on his face. John didn't move, shocked at Sherlock's sudden change in appearance, not wanting to make any disturbances. This was important.

The cogs were turning.

"Could it…" Sherlock muttered, letting the question hang unfinished. Apparently whatever it could or couldn't be was worth investigating. Sherlock leapt off of the sofa, retrieved his coat and scarf and practically ran out of the apartment.

John couldn't stop the slight smile spread across his face as he hurried after.

Something was happening.

* * *

_00:45:11_

John sat on the bench next to Sherlock, attempting to look as inconspicuous as possible with the polystyrene cup of hot tea in his hands and a blank look on his face.

They were waiting. It seemed like they had done little but wait since they had left the apartment. This was their third attempt. John was thinking that if this one didn't pay off then they may not have enough time to wait any more.

Sherlock was busy tapping away on his phone, looking completely unremarkable in the small park backing onto the sixth form college. Any observers would happily think he was just another businessman working late and needing a break. Apparently, however, the phone wasn't just for show. Sherlock was researching, his fingers darting about at lightning speed as he searched through files and online data, looking for any clues that might aid him.

The sun was already low in the sky and John expected that it would be dark in less than half an hour. It was therefore odd that this was the place Sherlock had deduced they would find their next suspect. Surely they would have left hours ago?

As usual, though, Sherlock was proved right.

John barely noticed the subtle change in Sherlock's behaviour, but the movements were undeniably there to anyone who knew him. His eyes were no longer fixed on the mobile before him, instead peering discretely over the top at the gate of the college. John tried to be as shrewd as he followed the gaze.

Two figures were chatting away. One was female and so obviously not their target. The other had no bizarre features about him. He just looked like an ordinary teenager – tall, tanned, shaved head. He was wearing tracksuit bottoms and a plain white t-shirt, a large gym bag swung over his shoulder – normal, in other words. The boy ended his conversation with the girl and began walking away from the gates, down one of the paths that led through the park. It was only until after he had successfully passed their little bench that Sherlock moved.

John sighed.

By the fact that Sherlock was currently strolling away in the opposite direction to the lad he could tell that this was not what they were looking for. They had waited for nothing.

"Not him?" John asked forlornly, trotting to keep up with the dark haired detective.

Sherlock continued walking to the nearest road, where he tried to hail down a taxi. "He's an adrenaline-fuelled teenager barely passing his PE A-level and with the IQ of a Labrador. Of course it's not him."

John shrugged as a black cab growled to a halt beside them. "She really knows how to pick them, doesn't she?"

Sherlock told the driver something before slipping into the car. "Quite."

John shut the door and strapped himself into the seat. Luck was clearly not on their side today. Why was it always the last option you look at? "So who's next – student or mechanic?"

"Seeing as the student is currently at university in Leeds, I think we can safely say that we don't have the necessary time available to visit him." Sherlock stated simply.

"Well, that's good, isn't it? He couldn't have stolen the bird from Leeds."

Sherlock just narrowed his eyes a fragment. "Probably not."

"So the mechanic?"

* * *

_00:08:19_

"Less than ten minutes!" Lestrade said for what must have been the fifth time already as he stomped his way back towards the kitchen and then over to the desk again. While John agreed with the sentiment, the frantic pacing was really starting to get on his nerves.

The constant reminders of the time were certainly not helping Sherlock think.

"Lestrade," the sociopath said darkly, "shut up or get out."

"But we've got less than ten minutes before the bastard kills Melanie!" Lestrade shot back angrily, not stopping in his march.

"And unless you want that to happen then I suggest you be quiet so that I can use the thing in my head that you always choose to ignore."

Lestrade huffed, but didn't slow down. He kept on checking his watch every couple of seconds. John was grateful that he kept the information he learnt to himself; it would only cause him to panic more if he actually knew how little time they had left.

Sherlock was busy typing away on the laptop, engrossed in the data he was finding there. John was sitting in the armchair, trying to use his nerves of steel to stop the terror showing on his face.

What if Sherlock didn't figure it out in time? What if Moriarty won? What if Melanie died? John struggled to keep the questions from forming in his mind, knowing they wouldn't do anyone any good, but as the seconds ticked away he found them starting to leak through. Sherlock needed to bloody hurry up.

The mechanic had been a dead end. John couldn't help feeling as if their entire investigation had been pointless at the news. After their wasted efforts they only had fifteen minutes to work out an entire new strategy. And yet Sherlock was still fixated on those damn dog hairs! He seemed blinded to all other clues.

The ringing cut through the flat.

Lestrade finally halted his gait and stared at where the piercing sound was coming from.

Sherlock lifted the pink phone and answered.

"_Five… minutes… hon-"_

Sherlock hung up before Melanie could finish the words through her rasping sobs. John felt his heartbeat crank up a notch. Christ, she must be terrified. And here she was, being forced to deliver the countdown to her own death.

Sherlock's head violently snapped up and away from the screen. He swiftly yanked the pink phone into his hands and dialled, placing the mobile to his ear in preparation.

John hadn't even realised the ringing had stopped before Sherlock was speaking into the receiver.

"Elliot Bran. Pal's Corner, Malden Road."

There was a moment's silence from the other end of the line.

"_Sherlock, help me."_

* * *

_Predictable I know, so sue me. The next chapter will switch back to Melanie's POV and will explain some things._

_Finally got this one out, sorry yet again for the wait. I know you won't believe me but you're lucky you got this at all. I kind of forgot about Melanie and Sherlock over the past few months, and it was only when my beta finally finished her story after four years – most of which was on hiatus – that I realised I should be writing too. You should read her Bleach fics btw, they're really good. There's a link on my profile. _

_Just to let you know, there's only going to be another two chapters of this story, and one of them is going to be super short. _

_So get your reviews in now! Hint, hint._


	37. Indelible

**Thirty** **Seven**  
_**Indelible**_

Sherlock wasn't there.

I hadn't really expected it of him – my brain had been yelling at me for the past six hours, reminding me that it would have been completely out of character for him – and yet a part of me, and not even a small part, had hoped.

It was testament to how very right Mycroft had been. A colossal part of me had changed. I wanted Sherlock there with me. Just a glimpse of his seemingly cold face through the crowd of police would have comforted me far more than the specially trained technicians removing the jacket from my shoulders. I wouldn't have felt so hopeless – so alone. I found myself admitting as I was wrapped up in yet another pink fluffy blanket and bundled into an ambulance what I had thought all my life was idiotic, pointless and amazingly self-centred. People just aren't supposed to be on their own.

I didn't want to be an island anymore.

Just as equally, however, I didn't want all these people around me. I didn't want to clutch onto them for warmth and a feeling of safety. I didn't want them to see me cry as they struggled to comfort me. I didn't want my friends or family.

I just wanted him.

And he wasn't there.

* * *

It had taken me at least an hour to convince them that I could leave the hospital. They obviously thought the only place suitable for someone who's been mentally tortured was a dreary, disease-filled, box. It was the shock, of course – I couldn't leave while that blanket was still around my shoulders.

They were itching to call my family. I could almost see the nurses' and police officers' hands slinking away towards the phone when they weren't paying attention. I wouldn't let them. I knew I'd have to tell my siblings and parents at some point, but right now having a raging brother grabbing my arm, promising never to let me out of his sight again, would not have helped me in the slightest.

The only person I wanted to see was probably busy lying on his sofa complaining about how he was so bored he couldn't possibly leave the flat.

I'd have to go to him.

The police weren't too keen on the idea of leaving me on my own either. They'd much rather have me under secure protection, which was in no way an excuse to question me some more on what had happened. Lestrade had only agreed in the end under the express requirement that two officers accompanied me to Baker Street and did not leave until they were certain I was in Sherlock's care. Apparently I needed that now – care. Like a child or pet.

I didn't bother ringing the doorbell, instead using the key Sherlock had given me to let myself in. The two officers, one of which was that woman I had talked to before – Donaldson? Donoghue? – followed me up the stairs of the small apartment. My fingers had almost caressed the banister as I trotted up. I'd missed this place, probably more than I'd like to admit, but the very notion of simply seeing it again touched somewhere deep inside me.

I slowly opened the door to the living room.

There, standing calmly not four feet away, as if he had been expecting me all this time, was the thing I had longed for most over the past eight hours.

The sight was too much. I had promised myself I wouldn't, fought in order to bottle up everything, sworn in vain that no one would see me like that, especially two strangers who would only pity me for it, but I just couldn't, not now, not with the tall, dark-haired man just standing there right in front of me.

Faster than I thought my reflexes could work, I had closed the gap between us. My head buried itself into the warm sanctuary, no doubt leaving salty marks where the tears struck the crook of his neck. My arms stretched upwards, my finger gripping as if my very life depended on it to the soft material of his shirt. I leant into him, fearing that if he moved my body may just collapse. It had been too terrifying, too dangerous, too difficult. Most of all, it had been too lonely.

He was here.

"Unless you have a search warrant, I'd advise you get out."

I felt the movement of his chest as he spoke rather than hearing the words themselves. I couldn't listen to anything right now. I didn't care what he said. It just wasn't important. Neither was the annoyed response from the policewoman or the officers' begrudging exit.

"Melanie."

My mind recovered a sufficient amount to concentrate on Sherlock's voice. There was something in it that comforted me. It was strong and resilient. It was apparently emotionless, and yet I was almost certain there was the tiniest of hints of something else to his tone.

"You're crumpling my shirt."

I pulled my head away from the safety of Sherlock's form, my sobs vanishing and an angry frown covering my features. It wasn't his statement that had me cross, however. I whacked my fist down swiftly onto his chest. "You bastard! Why'd you take your time like that?"

"I'm sorry," Sherlock started, a deeply sarcastic scowl on his face, "Next time I save your life I'll make sure to act hastily."

I pouted at him for a second, debating whether I should hit him again, but in the end decided to do the next best thing.

The kiss was awkward. Sherlock hadn't been expecting it and I wasn't really in the right frame of mind to control my actions. My lips scrambled, my finger taking up place in the midst of his dark curls as I held onto him, desperate to reassure myself that this was real, that Sherlock was really here. If I had had any more tears left inside me, I was positive that they would have fallen.

I didn't notice the cough from nearby, but Sherlock did and he pried away from my grasp. I followed his gaze and turned my head to see what was stopping him. I couldn't help the weak smile spread across my jaw.

"John." I greeted as cheerfully as I could manage.

He returned my grin and stepped towards me, embracing me in a hug that was made uncomfortable by my reluctance t let go of Sherlock. He stepped back, a worried expression taking over from his smile. "You alright?"

I didn't know what to say to that. I couldn't even bring myself to nod in response. Because I wasn't alright, was I? How could I be?

"Yes, John, she's fine." Sherlock saved me from answering. "Now, if you'll excuse us."

"Wha-"

Before I had even sputtered out my 'what', I found myself being dragged out of the room. I kept my grip on Sherlock's hand tight, not wanting to be separated from him, as he led me up more stairs and away from prying eyes.

* * *

"I had a lot of time to think, you know, while I was in that park."

Sherlock's only response was a noncommittal grunt. I could tell he was listening, though. He almost always was.

"Moriarty," I had to force the name out of my mouth, the very taste of it was foul, "he's the one that set me up for Samuel Peterson's murder, wasn't he?"

"Clearly." Sherlock said. It was surprising how wonderful I found that egotistical tone.

I pulled the crisp duvet closer around me, finding the warmth did little to replace the security I had felt with Sherlock's arms around me. "And the reason he… _kidnapped_ me… it was to antagonise you. He was judging how you would react."

Sherlock still didn't look up at me, instead choosing to focus his attention on the buttons of his shirt he was currently fastening. "Again – clearly."

I bit the inside of my cheek. Why was I so cold all of a sudden?

"What did Elliot Bran do?" I asked, trying to distract myself from the strange fear that was beginning to creep up my spine.

"Stole a highly prized Spix's Macaw from London Zoo." Sherlock answered plainly. He turned towards the door.

My heart rate accelerated. I grasped for anything that I could question him about. "Why and how?"

Sherlock sighed. He didn't, however, turn back to face me. "He is currently dating the security head's teenage daughter. Most likely, she asked him to do something drastic to not only show her the extent of his feelings, but also because she wanted to damage her father's reputation in revenge for a particularly harsh punishment he inflicted upon her for one of her many petty rule-breaks. Elliot has form for several small offences and so was her natural choice out of her five boyfriends. I had discounted him because he is supposed to be studying Film Making at Leeds University and he has no relatives this far south. I had not taken into consideration his flatmate's family. His father owns a pet shop nearby. It was simple enough for a common thief to break into the cage, replace the CCTV footage with his doctored version, and hide the animal taken somewhere where it would not seem out of place. It was all so terribly simple that I'm ashamed I didn't see it sooner. I was stupid."

I stared down at the ripples in the sheets before me. "You're never stupid."

"Very true," Sherlock boasted, "but compared to my usual level of intelligence, I was worryingly dim."

I rolled my eyes. Trust the man to come out with something like that.

I looked up in time to see him reaching for the door handle. He cold edged further up my limbs.

"Sherlock!" It slipped out of my mouth before I could stop myself. He paused, although I supposed he already knew why I had called him. "Please…"

At long last the detective turned and looked at me, his stare begging me to continue.

I frowned. I knew I shouldn't say what I was thinking. It was stupid, and not merely on a Sherlock-level of stupidity. He would hate it. He'd probably hate me just for asking it.

But I couldn't not… I couldn't let him… I couldn't be…

The words slithered out in a desperate whisper.

"_Please stay_."

* * *

_This was originally going to be longer but my beta advised me to cut it down a lot. She was right, of course. The rest of what I wrote was a horrible mess._

_Hope you're all watching Sherlock again on Wednesday nights on BBC1. Man, I have seriously seen the series too many times. Can't wait until autumn._

_I hope to get a chap to go with this one up in The Game that We Play soon.  
_

_Trusia, if you do end up doing any fan art, I would LOVE to see it! Can you put it online or something?_

_Only one chap left now._

_Please review._


	38. Incomplete

**Thirty Eight**  
_**Incomplete**_

For one of the very few times in our relationship, Sherlock had done what I asked of him.

He had stayed with me, although I could tell it was with more than a little annoyance. He had let out a disgruntled mumble and rolled his eyes in exasperation, but had nevertheless returned to the bed, where he lay, staring up at the ceiling blankly, acting as if he had not recognised my existence. From the very fact that he didn't shift or complain when I snuggled into his form, I could tell he was willing to put up with my weakness for now.

For only the second time out of the entire period I had known him, I fell asleep in Sherlock Holmes' arms.

When I awoke, however, something had changed.

I could tell even before my eyes opened just what it was, but my sight confirmed it for me. Sherlock was gone. He had somehow managed to sneak off, slipping out of my grasp and out of the room without waking me. I didn't think I would ever get used to how he could do things like that.

I doubted I had slept for long. It had been surprising that I had managed to nod off at all. My brain was such a tangled mess that I would have expected to stay awake for days on end, not even being able to shut my eyes out of fear that something else might happen.

Moriarty was still out there, and I was pretty certain Sherlock would have a few more psychotic enemies lying around somewhere. It pained me to admit it, but the truth was obvious to me – I was terrified. It had been none other than a death-filled nightmare that had awoken me from my troubled slumber in the first place.

And now that I was alone, the fear was beginning to spread. The cold that had been warded off earlier by Sherlock's presence was returning, sending tingles along the centre of my back.

I needed to find him.

Hurriedly, I rolled from the bed and yanked on the first clothes I could find that fit me, which turned out to be an old pair of cotton shorts I had previously left here and the shirt of Sherlock's pyjamas. I wrapped my arms around myself, struggling to protect myself from the oncoming chill that was nothing to do with the temperature, and wasted no time in trotting down the stairs towards the living room and kitchen of 221B Baker Street, where hopefully my sentient heater would be waiting.

I pushed open the door and switched on the dim lights to illuminate the darkness, expecting that Sherlock was in all likelihood sleeping on the sofa after getting fed up with having to share a bed for so long. My pace halted when I saw what was around me.

Nothing.

Well, naturally there wasn't _nothing_; 221B would never contain anything close to nothing. Junk littered every surface, making it impossible to focus on any one spot. I peered around the corner and into the kitchen and a similar sight met me. Clutter was everywhere and everywhere was cluttered, but apart from that, apart from the ridiculous curios and scientific equipment perched on the furniture, there was nothing.

Where was Sherlock?

I marched back on up the stairs and swiftly knocked loudly three times on John's bedroom door. Getting no response, I pried open the door and peered into the gloom beyond.

Nothing.

I checked the bathroom, only to be again disappointed before scampering downstairs, this time not stopping on the first but instead heading straight to the ground floor.

"Mrs Hudson?" I cried nervously while knocking on her door. I hadn't concentrated when my eyes had struck the clocks around the flat, but I suspected it was still late. The noise seeping into the building from the street indicated it wasn't yet early enough in the morning for partiers to be heading home, but it was certainly dark. "Mrs Hudson?"

"Coming, dear." I heard softly through the door. Her voice suggested that I had awoken Mrs Hudson from her sleep. I would have felt bad about that, but all I could fixate on at the moment was the not-so-subtle panic beginning to take hold in my chest.

"Yes, dear?" Mrs Hudson stood in front of me, wearing a prim dressing gown and hairnet. She took one look at my face and her vaguely annoyed expression immediately changed. "Oh, what's wrong?"

"Where's Sherlock?"

"Is he not upstairs?" She looked confused and I had a feeling it wasn't because of Sherlock's unknown whereabouts. "I suppose he must be out then. He does that, you know, always running around London. I would go with him, of course, but I have a hip, and besides, I don't think he would want to be followed by an old lady like myself. Why? Is something the matter?"

"Uh…" I managed to get out, now starting to become rather ashamed of myself for being so thoughtless. Of course Sherlock was just out – he usually was. My worries were utterly selfish. "No. Don't worry. It was… Don't worry. I'm really sorry to have woken you like this."

Mrs Hudson smiled warmly, clearly sensing it wasn't nothing at all. "No trouble, no trouble. Would you like to come in for a cup of tea and a chat? Or maybe something a little stronger? I think I have a bottle of port around here somewhe-"

I forced my lips to twist upwards. "No, I'm fine, thanks. I'll… um… just head back up. Sorry… again."

"You sure you're alright, dear?" She asked concerned, but I wasn't listening anymore, already halfway up the stairs and becoming further away from her with every second.

When I reached the living room, I slumped into one of the armchairs and dropped my head into my hands. I was being so childish, so ridiculously foolish. I wasn't at all worried about Sherlock, as Mrs Hudson had assumed. It was purely my own sake that I was concerned about, but even that was unreasonable. I was safe. I was in a locked apartment, Mrs Hudson guarding the only entrance, with a sword leaning against the nearest wall and in all likelihood a gun in John's drawers upstairs. Why would anyone come after me again? I had played my part in this preposterous play.

It was fine.

My senses, however, refused to let me believe this. I _knew_ I was out of harm's way, but I had a suspicion that until Sherlock returned, I just wouldn't feel it.

Where the hell was he?

I blinked, a thought occurring to me, and slowly raised my head.

John's laptop was out. John updated his blog and answered emails at the desk, and yet here was his computer lying precariously atop the small coffee table. Sherlock had been using it.

I almost jumped out of my chair and grabbed the thing, flipping it open and pressing the power button. I used the password Sherlock had trivially told me a week or so ago and was soon tapping open the browser history. The most recent site on the list sprung out at me. It might have been nothing, but from the time given it had been visited not even two hours ago.

_The Science of Deduction_ – Sherlock's webpage.

I clicked and waited for it to load, each millisecond stretching into what seemed like minutes. Finally it came up.

At first it only puzzled me. While Sherlock's posts on his forum were never terribly insightful, his last four made no sense at all. Why would Sherlock be running some sort of lost and found side-business? And who was Ian Monkford? And what the hell did the house-boy do with botox?

But it was the very last entry that had my heart climbing its way into my mouth, for it was so direct, and yet so unclear, that Sherlock must have spent time thinking the best way to word the instructions.

An idea was gnawing away at the back of my skull, but I didn't want to recognise it as the truth. It was a hideous idea – so unbelievably dangerous, so reckless, and so (I realised with an unpleasant jolt) incredibly Sherlock.

I couldn't let myself believe it yet, I just couldn't.

I typed in a new web address and pressed enter. If anyone would know what Sherlock was up to, it would be John, and although it was unlikely he would post it online for the entire world to see this quickly, there may just have been a clue on his blog.

My face dropped as I saw the last entry had been made a whole week ago. I scanned the recent comments, my heartbeat climbing further with each sentence. They were yelling at me, showing me that that little idea may not have been so ridiculous after all.

_Where are you?_

_Please answer your phone!_

_He's not replying!_

God, he couldn't have… Could he?

I leapt from my seat and darted for my handbag beside the door, rummaging hysterically until I reached what I was looking for. I dialled the number and placed the BlackBerry to my ear, shivers trailing up my arms as I waited for a response. I repeated the process four times, each time receiving the exact same outcome. Sherlock wasn't picking up.

The words on his forum twisted, finding a whole new sickening meaning. With each passing moment the reason for their disappearance was becoming clearer to me, just who it was Sherlock had been speaking to manifesting in my thoughts until they became an unimaginable monster, and I knew I could do nothing to stop the inevitable from happening. I could only stay there, a pathetic lamb just waiting to be told it was time to visit the abattoir, without any sort of means to prevent it.

_Please collect. The Pool. Midnight._

… Moriarty…

* * *

_**The End**_

* * *

_Well, for now at least…_

_I do want to put up a sequel to this, and have already sorted out most of the plot, the only problem is that I really don't want to start it before the next series comes out. I want to stay true to the canon even more so than with this one. _

_I plan to make the sequel revolve around Melanie and Sherlock's personal life, rather than Moriarty-fuelled events, since now they've got a sort of bond in place and I don't need to force them together any more. From the stories Gatiss and Moffat are using for season 2, it doesn't look like Melanie will be having a fun time, and that's without any plot interference from me._

_I do seriously want to get this sequel out, and will try extraordinarily hard to get it done, but I'm currently not sure how busy I'll be in the autumn since I start a new job in September. _

_Don't be too angry. Having to wait is annoying for me as well, especially since I just got back into writing it. Damn BBC. _

_Anyways, my point is that look out for a sequel when the new season starts. I haven't quite decided what it'll be called yet, but it may be something along the lines of 'The Game That I Lost' – I'll be sure to make it clear in the summary though so don't worry. _

_Thanks to anyone who's reviewed, favourite, added this fic to their alert list, or indeed just stuck with me for this long. It sounds incredibly cheesy, but you guys do make it so much more fun for me. I'm a lazy sod without encouragement._

_And for one final, heart-wrenching time, it has come to that point when I ask you all to do me a monumental favour._

_A last review?_


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